


My Boy Willie

by Sylvia_Bond



Category: Dark Shadows (1966)
Genre: F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Murder, Other, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 89,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvia_Bond/pseuds/Sylvia_Bond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Willie arrived at Collinwood, with his best pal Jason McGuire, he had no idea what he was getting into, or that his hunt for jewels would instead lead him to a vampire's grave. Barnabas Collins has no love lost for the graverobber, even if Willie did free him. Badness ensues. </p><p>Basically, this is the story of Barnabas' release from the coffin and his first few months at Collinwood, as seen by the man who released him into the 20th century, Willie Loomis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Boy Willie - Part One

**In the Secret Room**

It was dark when he awoke, dark, and damp, and still. He couldn't quite figure out where he was, only that his shoulder was stiff and had gone to sleep from being wedged between him and what felt like a brick wall. This wasn't new, he'd woken up like this once or twice before, but what puzzled him was the dampness. That and the darkness, which surrounded him completely, along with the smell of mold and dust. Where the hell was he?

A memory came to him, that of Jason proudly crowing into the phone that he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do and was now moved into Collinwood. Was he drunk? Had he and Jason gone drinking to celebrate? No, almost directly after that he'd moved into Collinwood himself, because after eyeing Jason in his new suits he realized that there was more than enough to go around and had elbowed his way into the joint. Okay, then, he'd moved into Collinwood and wreaked havoc among the natives, had pursued Carolyn to the point where she pulled a gun on him, and to the point that Burke Devlin took it upon himself to teach him a lesson.

So, was he recovering from the lesson still? Aching and bruised and trying to wake up? No, he'd become his old self quickly after that, and had gone on trying to get some money out of Ms. Stoddard via Jason. Only Jason had decided that he didn't want Willie in on his action, that Willie was causing more trouble than he could possibly be worth. Had scrounged up a measly five hundred dollars and had wanted Willie gone.

Only at the time, Willie had realized that there was a far better way to get some fast cash by digging up forgotten graves and sifting through old bones for jewels. Antique, one of a kind and worth loads of money. He'd been quite excited at the time when Jason had stopped him to grill him about where he'd been. And then Jason had promised him the money, and he thought how great that was going to be to get the jewels and the money, all in one night. And then Jason'd be sorry, having missed out on his lovely take. And wasn't he doing exactly what Jason had advised him? To steal only those things which wouldn't be missed? Who would miss jewels that hadn't seen the light of day for over 175 years?

And that was his last solid memory, taking a puff from his cigarette, placing it down on an old, marble tomb and laughing on the inside about the riches which were soon to be his. But if he was lying in this dark place, a place with no light and all hard edges, then something must have happened since. Something that had him shoved against this brick wall, feeling like an 18-wheeler had passed over him. And then backed up and passed over him again.

When he tried to move, tried to unwedge himself from the corner where the wall and floor met, his shoulder refused to budge. And his head started swimming. Maybe it had been a pair of 18-wheelers. Or maybe it had been Jason, in a snit, deciding as he sometimes did, that Willie needed to be taken down a peg or two and Jason was just the man to do it.

_When I get out of this, I'll fix him. I'll fix him good._

He tried to move his arm again and realized that the reason he couldn't wasn't because it was trapped beneath his body, which it was, or that it had gone to sleep. Because it hadn't. He couldn't feel it because it was completely numb. And swollen. He reached over with his other hand to touch it, his head instantly spinning with white flashes behind his closed eyes, and realized that his right arm was all puffed up. Like someone had put a tourniquet on it and then left it there and then suddenly let go. He rolled on his back, limp, head in the dirt. His right arm was ice cold. At least he was unwedged now and maybe some of the blood would flow back into his arm and warm it up. Maybe. He was pretty cold all over, come to think of it. Probably from lying on dirt for a while.

The matches in his pocket wouldn't warm him up any, but at least they would be able to tell him where he was. He reached into his left-hand pants pocket and pulled out the packet. It was clumsy going with only one operating hand and being unable to see, but he managed to light the match against the wall and held it up, just above his head.

A room then, quite small, all brick and mortar. With some kind of structure in the middle. Dust motes trickled lazily down in the still air. The match went out.

He lit another. Held the match up. In the flickering light he could see a box of some kind, of dark wood and highly polished. Something tickled at the back of his brain, tickled with insistent fingers. He shook his head and let the second match go out.

Slowly, he rolled himself on his left side, feeling like a thousand year old man, and pushed himself up with his elbow and then with his hand until he was sitting upright. His head was swimming even though he sat absolutely still and he figured maybe something very bad had happened so that he should lay very, very quietly for a while. He allowed himself to slump back down until his head hit the dirt again.

And heard the pounding of his heart.

Only it wasn't his heart because it was coming from outside the dark room.

Coming from outside and coming closer, it seemed. Closer and louder and stronger. A heartbeat that was not his own.

A very faint light, like that of a false dawn, was easing its way into the room, and a longer shaft of light appeared at the end of the room near his feet. It grew wider, and with it the heartbeat louder. And suddenly the door flung itself open and in walked some thing. It was huge and tall and dark, silhouetted by the faint light from outside. It carried something long and slim by its side and walked into the room and then the door slid shut behind it. 

He was alone in the room with the Thing. In the dark.

The scream rose in his throat, shrieking its way up past his vocal cords as if on birded wings. And then the Thing knelt beside him and wrapped itself around his neck and silenced him. He struggled, pulling back, pulling away, his arm useless, pants of effort the only sound he could possibly make. The Thing grabbed his arm and pulled, and an enormous arrow of pain let him know that there were still some nerve endings yet working there.

And when the Thing sank its teeth into his wrist, he remembered everything.

Passing out was a blessing.

How long this went on, he didn't know, only that it must have been several days, because his face was becoming scratchy with beardgrowth. That was the only way he knew. It was always dark and still and damp. And after the passing of time, the door would open and the Thing would come in. The Thing from the coffin, all ragged clothes and blue with mold. And he would never forget the first words out of its mouth, the voice croaking with disuse:

"Is there yet a Collinwood?"

All he could manage in the dark was a nod, his throat so dry and thirsty, and then the Thing snapped at him to speak up.

"Y-yes, there's a Collinwood. On the the hill above town."

This seemed to satisfy the Thing for a time as it let Willie go and walked back and forth in the dark. Then the Thing began to ask questions. Tiresome and difficult questions about what year it was, and who was at Collinwood, and who was related to whom. Willie had answered as best he could, his voice cracking at every turn. He'd answered until he had no more information and the Thing seemed satisfied. And went away.

And then came back.

And lunged at him. Sinking its teeth into his wrist, a searing pain, like a fire in his veins, pulling and pulling. At which point the blackness in the room would get even blacker and he would pass out.

Until the point he woke up and the door was open and he could see that the sun had just set. To see the light, even fading as it was, hurt his eyes so that he had to squint. But the door was definitely open. And the Thing was nowhere to be seen.

Then he remembered the Thing saying, "I will send for you."

In a voice that implied that he'd better well come when called or there'd be hell to pay. He didn't quite know what kind of call was meant, like was it a phone call or what it would be. He supposed he'd know when the time came.

Just like he knew who the Thing was. He didn't want to say it, not even in the recesses of his own mind, but he knew. Kind of hard not to, when the Thing so resembled the man in the portrait that hung in such a prominent position in the main hall at Collinwood. The very same portrait that he'd spent so much time studying and asking about. The same portrait which had lured him here so that he was now spending an eternity in darkness.

**At the Blue Whale**

Unsure as to whether he could actually leave, he moved toward the doorway across the dirt. Rather like a crab in the sand, sideways, his body dragging dirt with it as he inched his way over. Clouds of dust swirled about him in the open doorway, which led to the main room of the tomb. The main door hung on open hinges, its wrought iron lock useless and broken.

Blissful light. The setting sun cast shadows in tree-etched patterns. It was going to be dark soon, but in that hour between sunset and darkness, it was twilight. Easier for his eyes to see, at least. He made his way through the gates of the cemetery and toward the town.

The sign of the Blue Whale loomed before him, and he recognized it. Somehow, he'd made his way from the cemetery, and this was the first place he knew. Like an old friend, some place to go and have a smoke or two and a mug of beer. He didn't think about Burke and his warning, or about Jason wanting to kick him out of Collinwood. Just a nice beer. Just one.

Opening the door, he stumbled to the bar and fell into a seat. Why was he here? He wiped at his forehead with one hand, as if to massage the memory to the surface of his brain. But the only memories were less recent ones, of finding the coffin, and the joy he'd felt at finding the jewels. Only it wasn't the jewels he'd found, it wasn't the jewels at all. Not all the memories were clear, either. But some where crystal clear. Him opening the coffin, laughing with glee. Barnabas Collins, alive and wakeful as if he'd just been placed in the coffin an hour ago. His ancient clothes in tatters, mold grown everywhere from the damp, eyes vibrant, hair dark and wild. And then of Barnabas flying out of the coffin, pushing Willie against the wall, ripping open his sleeve and sinking his teeth into Willie's wrist. He'd passed out after that, laying in a half-faint in the dust of the secret room, watching Barnabas leave and come back, not knowing the passage of time. He would wake up to find Barnabas at his wrist, feeling the strings of his veins being pulled out through his skin, feeling his own heartbeat get slower and slower, and feeling the coils of something dark and powerful wrap itself around his spine.

"Is there still a Collinwood?" he heard that voice again, ragged from the grave.

It had been more of a demand than a request, and Willie had stumbled out what he knew of the people at Collinwood, which was not very much. Of the world he could tell Barnabas very little, since he occupied so low a rung in it, but he told him what he could of cars, and television, and the obvious things that came to mind. Of anything else, his mind was so blank that he could only shake his head.

And watched the vampire become more human each time he drank Willie's blood.

"I will send for you," Barnabas Collins had said.

And Willie, alone in the secret room, the door wide open, looked out at the beckoning clear night sky.

He'd made his way into town, and the Blue Whale.

He ordered a whisky at the bar, or actually, he motioned at the bartender with one hand and held on to the edge of the bar with the other and a drink appeared. There was no ice in the glass, he noted absently, and it wasn't a beer like he'd been hoping for, but it was a drink. The thought crossed his mind that he might not have any money, but he could barely summon the energy to pat his pockets to find out where his wallet was located.

Burke approached him. Though he was talking in that clear, low voice of his, Willie could hardly pay attention to the man through the haze that hummed in his brain. Something about why he, Willie, hadn't left town when Burke told him to. Willie wished with all his heart that he had. He tried to assure Burke that he wasn't going to be causing any more problems in town, and that's when Burke got worried. Started asking questions about why Willie was acting so strange, and whether he was okay, maybe he'd hit his head. Willie had to finally snap something out, something he hoped would have the power to make Burke go away. And it did. Burke went away.

It seemed only seconds later he heard someone else talking to him, someone whose voice he knew quite well, so he turned his head to focus and found Jason sitting next to him at the bar, brows lowered over dark green eyes, face creased with worry.

"Jason!" he said with pleasure. It was good to see someone familiar. 

Jason, of course, had the same questions that Burke had, only, being as it was Jason, his questions were more pointed and probing.

"Where'd you go?" asked Jason, his voice low and gentle at first, the Irish lilt prominent in his voice.

"Don't ask me," replied Willie softly in return, wanting that Jason should go away and be safe.

Jason wasn't the type to go away, and could never be put off till he was damn good and ready. He seemed to sense that there was something dark and dire that had happened to Willie, and, suspicions raised, wanted to help. Jason was completely ready to take care of him.

"And if you're in any trouble," he said in earnest, "I'll help you out of it, just like I always do."

He wanted to help, Willie could see that. There'd been so many times in the past that Jason had helped him out of jams, and he'd helped Jason sometimes, too. But this was not one of the times Jason could help him. Jason would simply not believe where he'd been. Moreover, Willie suspected that part of the problem was that Jason did not like being kept in the dark. He could always tell when Willie had a secret, despite Willie's half-hearted protests to the contrary, and he was always crazy to know it. Jason hated mysteries and secrets, except for those that he was in-the-know on.

Then it got confusing. Jason wanted him to come to Collinwood to apologize to Mrs. Stoddard and Carolyn. And that, instead of getting straight out of town, like everybody else seemed to want him to do. Burke even came over to join back in the conversation, and when Willie protested the Collinwood visit, Burke agreed. This stunned him somewhat, and he sat staring at his drink, unsure of what to do next.

"I will send for you," Barnabas had said. And other than that, Willie had no direction at all.

Not that there was any lack of orders from Jason. He wanted Willie to drink his drink, straighten his shoulders, and go on up to Collinwood and apologize to one and all. As if that would solve anything. Probably what Jason really wanted to see was Willie grovel and crawl, obviously, and Willie didn't care. He'd do it, just to make things right, even though there was no way he could.

"No, Jason, I don't need my drink, I just want to go."

Up at Collinwood, neither Liz nor Carolyn, especially Carolyn, believed him. He didn't believe himself, but he sounded good. Carolyn actually rolled her eyes in disgust.

"I want to apologize for my b-for my behavior." He said the words and he meant them, but the entire time his head felt like it was detached from the rest of his body. He couldn't even feel his feet. All he could hear was the beating of his heart, and all he could feel was the boiling acid in his stomach. His hands hung like lead at his sides, and he kept his eyes on the floor.

Jason and Elizabeth went into the sitting room for one of their private discussions.

As Carolyn was putting on her coat, he tried again. "I didn't mean to scare you," he said, pacing a bit. It seemed to help calm him some, but he really felt like running out the door and not stopping.

"And I didn't mean to almost try to kill you," she said in return, buttoning her coat. But it sounded like it was too little too late, and she left the house.

And, alone in the foyer, he turned to see the portrait of Barnabas Collins, which seemed almost as alive as the man himself, and felt the scream building in his throat. He was drawn to the portrait as before, but this time with fear instead of fascination. His head was swimming now, and he shook all over as if with a fever. Even grasping the bottom railing of the stairs so hard that his hands hurt didn't help. The feeling inside of him escaped in a loud shriek. And felt the cool paving stones of the foyer beneath his cheek before he passed out.

When he next awoke, it was still dark, and Jason was sitting at the foot of his bed. How he'd gotten back into his bed at Collinwood was a mystery to him, and he thought for a second that the whole lousy thing was a dream, or a nightmare. But his head hurt, and his jacket had blood on it, and he wanted to leave very badly. But when he tried to get up, Jason pressed him back against the pillows. Jason's hands were warm and familiar and it made him feel a little better to have him there, even if he was being bossy.

"I said I was sorry."

It didn't seem to matter whether or not he was sorry, that was beside the point. He was sick.

"You're sick, and I'm sure Liz can be convinced to let you stay. I'll go talk to her."

As Jason was about to leave, Willie grabbed his arm. "Jason, tell her...tell her I apologize...." But then he had to let Jason go and be alone in the room. To be alone in the darkened room made the terror worse, and he could hardly catch his breath.

Within minutes Jason was back, smiling broadly. 

"It's alright, I've convinced her to let you stay as long as it takes you to get on your feet."

Puzzled, Willie started to protest.

"Besides, where else would you go?"

"Away." Far, far away. Away from the cliffs and hills of Collinwood, away from the cobblestone streets of Collinsport, so far away that the whole state of Maine would only be a bad memory.

Jason promised to take good care of him, in that bright, smiling way of his, too cheerful to fool Willie, who knew that Jason was completely baffled by the whole thing. He was helped out of his clothes, despite his protests, and then Jason spied the bandage on his wrist. He remembered tying it up, using part of the sleeve of his shirt, as he walked into town. Of course, Jason would want to look at it, never mind Willie's protests. But Jason pushed it so hard that finally Willie was up against the headboard of the bed, holding his wrist to his chest.

"No one must see it!" His voice came out sharp as venom, and it cut him on the inside to see Jason so hurt by his refusal. It was going to be very hard to keep Jason away from this secret, and he ached with knowing how hard it would be.

And when Jason did see it, he remarked on it in a way that told Willie he was confused. Bruises and a small cut, as he put it, did not add up, in Jason's mind, anything that could have affected Willie overly much. Jason had no clue what had happened.

Then it was getting dark, and as much as he fought it, he felt the pull of Barnabas and the force of his attention in his brain. Even pulling the pillows over his head didn't help; it was too late, too late. He went to the window.

"I hear you, I hear you calling me," he said to the setting sun and the growing night air. "I hear you, and I'm coming."

But when he got downstairs, Jason caught up with him, and the fear that Barnabas would be furious at his absence was replaced by the present dilemma of Jason's insistence that he go back upstairs. He went along with it long enough to catch Jason off guard, shoving him against the steps and racing out the door. The drive in the car was too short, but he couldn't seem to slow down, couldn't seem to go anywhere but to the gates of the cemetery, or go anywhere else but to the Collin's mausoleum. There, he opened the gates, and pulled on the ring in the lion's mouth. 

The door to the secret tomb opened like a vicious maw, and the darkness reached out for him from within. Drawing him in and combing its fingers through his soul. He stepped forward to the edge of the secret room, holding on to that last moment of normalcy, where the world was the one he knew, with an evening sky full of stars, and a soft wind that never spoke of anything but fireflies. He bowed his head. And entered the mouth of hell.

**At Collinwood**

He returned to Collinwood through the kitchen, wanting only to slip upstairs and put his head on the pillow before he collapsed completely. Instead, he was confronted by the angry face of Jason, who was furious at being played for an idiot. He confronted Willie with the presence of his car at the cemetery, and the sarcasm of his voice let Willie know that Jason had had enough, and would not tolerate Willie's plans, as they might interfere with his own. He no longer believed that Willie was sick, and made it sound like he never believed it, but that he'd been going along with it for Willie's sake. And he was sure that Willie was still graverobbing, was disgusted by it in fact, and Willie admitted that that's what he'd been doing because Jason's version of what he'd been up to was much more preferable than the reality of it.

"I'm driving you into town and you're taking the next bus!" said Jason, and Willie wished that it could be so.

But he couldn't leave, not any more, not even if he wanted to, and oh, how he wanted to. He fell to his knees in front of Jason, hard on the stones of the foyer. He didn't know how he'd gotten there, but he grabbed Jason's body as he fell, holding onto the other man's waist, burying his head against Jason's hip. For a moment, Jason held him there, almost tenderly, and then he let him go. Willie sat back on his heels, and grabbed Jason's hand with his own.

"Jason, you're my friend, help me," he begged, almost sobbing.

"I'll help you as far as the car!" Jason snarled.

There would be no help from Jason.

Roger, of course, had a field day that afternoon, and summarily threw him out on his ass, which was not unexpected; given that Roger was never one to suffer fools gladly.

And then, by nightfall he was well. The fever was broken, and, t-shirt damp with sweat, he felt as good as new. He was getting dressed and when Jason came upon him, seeing him so lively and full of piss and vinegar, Jason wanted to escort him straight to the door.

"You're not confiding in me, Willie, and as far as I'm concerned, that's betraying me."

Of course, Jason would think about it like that. Jason didn't want in on his plans, graverobbing being far beneath him apparently, but he hated not knowing about them.

"I'd like to know what happened to you in that cemetery," said Jason, standing behind him.

_No, you wouldn't._

He wanted to say it out loud, but that would only bring on more questions. Let Jason think they were through, and with everything he had, he would keep the truth from Jason, and keep Jason safe.

Then there was the visit from Vicki that came as he was preparing to leave. It tore him to shreds inside. She was such a decent person, so ladylike and proper, being so well-mannered that she would bring him his supper instead of throwing it in his face. She went away, and he, unforgiven, could not watch her go.

He walked down stairs to meet Jason. Suddenly wanting to tell Mrs. Stoddard about the danger she was in, he was rebuffed and summarily escorted to the front door. He stopped there, on the threshold, the force of Jason pushing him out, the fear of what was out there holding him in place. And even though he now had more money in his pocket than when he came, he was afraid.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know, Willie. That's sort of up to you, isn't it?"

Willie looked out over the expanse of lawn, at the leaves racing in the dark, night wind. "No," he said, "it's not up to me."

Nothing was ever going to be up to him again.

**At the Old House**

He stepped out onto the porch, and heard the doors of Collinwood shut behind him. Not much of a goodbye, but then, he'd hardly expected more. With a sigh that started somewhere around his toes, he started toward the Old House. It appeared quicker than he'd thought it would, half-hidden by trees, and the dark, white columns appallingly tall, ivy grown over most of the brick. It was the kind of place that he would have joked was haunted when he was a kid, would have run past in the night with his friends, laughing. He wasn't laughing now, of course, nor was he running past it. Much to his dismay, he was going into it. Into the heart of darkness, it seemed.

A figure waited by one of the columns, a figure in darkness, in the shadows.

Barnabas Collins.

Wanting to resist. Thinking about resisting. Stopping acutely, resting on one of the flagstones. And then that voice, calling without words, the image of the Thing ominous in his brain. He moved forward, something pulling at the center of him, dancing in his head. Of course he couldn't stop, couldn't resist. The figure went through the double doors, and they stayed open, like a huge mouth without teeth.

He paused just outside the door, wishing that the growing fog would swallow him whole.

"Come in. Close the door."

He went through the door on numb feet, everything from the neck down one big, numb nerve. He turned to close the door, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and then turned back around.

Barnabas said something about this being home, and Willie took a cautious look over his shoulder. Not looking at the vampire, but taking in the darkness, the woodwork, the cobwebs, the peeling wallpaper. 

Then Barnabas asked him a question. Willie started, eyes catching the vampire's unwillingly, locked in there, locked together for a second. Then he snapped his eyes away.

"Nothin'," he said, "nothin'."

"Now go. You have a job to do."

He knew exactly what it was Barnabas wanted him to do. How, he did not know, but the thought of doing it made his stomach turn. "I can't."

"You no longer have any say in what you do."

The Thing was alive in Barnabas' eyes. Alive and cold and angry. Its hand was on his heart, squeezing tighter with each beat. Until he was sure that it would stop beating altogether and he would die.

Feeling the focus of Barnabas' gaze on him was like being a deer in a pair of headlights. He didn't know which way to jump and didn't trust that a freedom-seeking leap wouldn't take him right over the edge of a sheer cliff. But if he didn't move, one way or the other, the vampire was sure to leap upon him and tear him apart. Like he did in the secret tomb, in the dark.

_Don't think about that, don't._

He was tied up in knots, his stomach contained an entire clutch of snakes writhing around. And trying to hold still was impossible; he was shaking from head to toe. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs.

The smell of the Old House didn't help any either. It reminded him of the secret tomb, somehow dank and dry at the same time, with a morbidly fascinating undercurrent of decay. Probably the plaster in the walls gone to rot. Or the glue in the wallpaper, or the dead body which was surely secreted beneath the floorboards somewhere.

And Barnabas? Standing there in his caped coat, cane in one hand, face shadowed and silhouetted in the chancy light. He could barely look at the vampire, but he had to when Barnabas spoke.

"Go. Now."

Barnabas pointed at the door, and Willie left. The calf was easy to find, and he waited till Barnabas found them, unerringly tied to the beat of Willie's heart. He couldn't imagine anything worse than holding the calf as Barnabas pounced on it. Held it while it struggled and cried for its mother. As Barnabas clutched at it and drank from a sliced open vein. Of course he knew that there were worse things, that Barnabas could be clutching at _him_ and drinking his blood. Being in the grasp of a vampire was very cold. But soon the calf wasn't feeling the cold or anything else. Its furry knees collapsed under it as it fell into a heap in the grass.

Somehow, some blood had sprayed up across his face, his nose. He wiped his hand across his face, feeling the stillness of his bones beneath his chilled skin. When Barnabas was finished, he raised his head, his coat straightening itself around him as he stood up. There wasn't a lot of light to see by, but Willie didn't imagine that there were any bloodstains on Barnabas whatsoever.

"Go back to the Old House," instructed Barnabas, "and wait for me there."

Willie did not wait to be asked twice. He made his way quickly across the pasture, his pant legs becoming soaked as he hiked through the tall, wet grass.

He let himself in the Old House, a swirl of fog following him in, almost blowing out the single candle burning on the hall table. The Old House was very still and quiet and the decaying smell was everpresent, though it had faded to almost an almost unnoticeable level in the small hours before dawn. And what was he supposed to do until Barnabas returned? What did Barnabas want him for anyway?

Jason had only ever wanted a second sometimes, a dogsbody others. Someone to applaud his wit, to admire his intelligent and well thought out plans, someone to help instigate those plans, and to celebrate their success. Jason was ever one to be plotting and scheming, sometimes for revenge, but mostly for riches and gain. This had always complemented Willie's plans, as his main goal in life had been to stockpile as much money as possible. Only the stockpile had never amounted to much and what little there had been had been spent, or worse, plied into one of Jason's plans that had backfired.

He didn't think Barnabas would want anything like that.

And so he stood, waiting in the foyer, trying not to get freaked out by the creepiness of a dank, smelly, ancient, deserted mansion lit by only one candle. The dark at the top of the stairs seemed to be moving toward him though he knew it was only a trick of the light, and then it shrank away before it advanced again. Never before in his life had he been afraid of the dark. But he was afraid of it now.

He suddenly realized he was thirsty, so he picked the candlestick up and made his way down the little hallway that went past the stairs. Surely there was a bathroom or a kitchen where he could get a drink of water and wash his hands? The blood on his neck was beginning to itch.

Only there was no bathroom, at least there didn't appear to be one on the first floor, but he wasn't about to go searching around upstairs. In the dark. Alone. The one door under the stairs led to a triangle shaped closet. The door at the end of the hall led to a large, dark room and when he raised his candle to scare away the darkness, he realized it was a kitchen. There was a large cast-iron stove like his great-aunt used to have on the opposite wall and a huge farmer's table in the middle of the room. A stone and brick fireplace was built into the wall at one end, and there was a door that led to somewhere else, probably the outside, at the other. The entire room was laid over with spider webs, white glowing quilts hanging from corners, between broken rungs of upside-down chairs, just about anyplace a spider could go. The whole of the fireplace was just one big web. He hated to imagine what had built that.

And to his surprise, he recognized his own things, lying in two neat piles on the table. They had gone missing, Jason had told him, the night he'd disappeared, the night he'd unearthed his treasure.

The first was his kit bag, with a change of clothes, his shaving gear, and a local area map. The second pile was his history books on the early settlement, and the legends and stories about the Collins family. These actually belonged in the Collins' family library, but Barnabas must have assumed that they were his and had collected them along with his other things. And it was strange too, that Barnabas had known where he had been staying and in which room. He didn't recall ever being asked that particular question.

He made his way to the far side of the room and discovered that instead of both a hot and cold water tap, there was only a cast-iron pump on one side of the sink. No hot water, then. He tried the pump and it shrieked at him from disuse. Time to prime the pump, it appeared. The rest of the kitchen revealed various pieces of rusted metal, an old washboard, a pile of scrap wood, and other things he couldn't identify in the dark. By pure luck, he discovered an old pan with no handle and a badly rusted bottom. But it would serve for the moment, as long as he could find a source of water.

The smell of fresh air and recent rain spilled over him as he opened the back door. Under the drainpipe was an old, sagging cardboard box, and in it, a puddle of water. He dipped the pan in and raced back inside, one hand holding the pan, the other holding the rusted bottom closed. When he got to the pump, he moved the handle up and down a few times and poured the water along the inside sleeve. He had to do this several times, until the water came gushing out in an ice cold, rusty stream. He worked the pump until the water ran clear, and then cupped his hand under it. Bent and drank.

His body heard the step behind him a second before his brain registered it, sending him spinning around. The water from the pump splashed up, leaving one side of him cold and damp. It was Barnabas Collins, the mist sparkling on the lapels of his caped coat and in his hair. He seemed to have brought a bit of the mist and fog indoors with him, along with the candle he held in his hand, for as he approached Willie, it got even colder and more damp. As if he were being enveloped by a sort of weather cloud, with the kind of dampness that could soak a person to the bone. Closer Barnabas came, his face and hands carved from marble. He was absolutely dead, in spite of the fact that he was walking; the only thing alive about him was his eyes. There were lights in them, dark, flickering lights, reflecting off obsidian, like lamplight in a Kentucky coal mine. Where there is no air, and the light takes on a thick, heavy glare.

Willie pressed his back against the counter's edge, hands clamping down on the rough wood, fingers slipping against the dampness. Something, something dark that he could not define, twisted at his nerves and rippled through his stomach and he recognized it as fear. Fear was not something he was regularly acquainted with; no one in his circle, his former circle he now supposed, had ever accused him of being a coward and really meant it. Even in prison, or on the dark streets of Bangkok, he'd never felt this all encompassing dread. Barnabas was closer now, and the scent of him, the dampness of the night mingled with the mold of the tomb, came closer too.

"W-what do you want with me?" Willie asked. To his horror, not only had his old childhood stutter come back, his knees were knocking together. Both with a vengeance.

Barnabas stopped, close enough now, it seemed, adjusting the weight of his silver-headed cane in one hand, and putting the candle he carried on the table with the other.

"The difficulty," began Barnabas slowly, "for a person of rank is to find suitable servants. The difficulty increases," he continued, "for a gentleman of any standing in finding an appropriate manservant."

Willie's lips moved around the word _manservant_ , not liking the taste of it and not really understanding what it meant.

Barnabas nodded, as if Willie had spoken the question aloud. He moved away, much to Willie's relief, and began poking around the kitchen.

"A manservant," he said, opening and closing cupboards, "must be the soul of discretion and the stalwart defender of his master's honor."

The word _stalwart_ he did not know, but the word _master_ he did.

"Master?" he asked, not liking the taste of that word either.

"And not only that," continued Barnabas, ignoring this, "but a manservant must be clean, orderly, punctual, ethical, and obedient."

Barnabas stopped his perusal of the cast-iron stove to look at him once up and down. "It is obvious to me that you are none of these things, but since you are all that this century seems to have to offer at present, you will have to do."

"Listen, I don't know what you're t-talking about, but--"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't wanna be your manservant, or whatever it is!" The protest broke from him of its own accord.

"That is unfortunate," replied Barnabas, unfazed by this small outburst. "The matter has already been decided."

"But--"

"As I am determined to function as normally as possible in this century, I do not want anyone to know about me any more than is necessary. Since you already know about me, I cannot possibly set you free."

Here was an out, and Willie grabbed it. "I won't tell anyone about you," he said, eagerly, bringing his hands to his chest. "Honest! I swear!"

"A man who would stoop to grave robbing cannot possibly be counted upon to keep his word." Barnabas' voice was stern now. "Besides which, a man who would stoop to grave robbing has probably reached the end of his rope, wouldn't you say?"

This startled him, as he'd not expected Barnabas to figure that out so quickly. That meant that Barnabas was smart, smarter than Jason, who by the time Willie'd left Collinwood, still hadn't figured out that Willie's luck had run out. But he would rather be walking a lonely road with his jacket collar lifted over his ears in a stiff wind with no money and no friends than to be the manservant to a, well, to whatever Barnabas was.

In the silence that followed his mostly rhetorical question Barnabas said, "Your only other alternative is death." Here the vampire smiled. "I leave the choice entirely up to you."

Until that moment their conversation had been about normal, everyday things, and Willie's reaction had been normal as well, _No, I don't want to work for you._ But as Barnabas mentioned his alternative choice, Willie instantly felt the dark, grey hands of death creeping up over him to clasp on his heart. The hand gave a small squeeze and Willie jumped.

"D-death?"

Barnabas approached him again, the trappings of the kitchen no longer of interest to him. He smiled.

"Yes, Willie, death. Or life. Which is it to be?"

It might have been bad to have been threatened like this in broad daylight, but there were only two candles on the table, and the dark, eerie silence that followed Barnabas' question was all the more creepy. The Thing flickered in the vampire's eyes, beneath heavy, hooded lids.

There was, of course, no alternative. As often happened to him, the choice between two circumstances was often no choice at all. He hung his head.

"Okay," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Okay, yeah, I'll work for ya."

"Do not look so unhappy, Willie," Barnabas enjoined him. "I am a firm taskmaster, but I am fair. My past menservants have enjoyed working for me."

Willie looked up at Barnabas, who seemed perfectly serious.

"How much you going to pay me, then?" he asked, almost muttering, thinking that maybe the money would be alright.

"Pay you?" Barnabas arched his brows. "A manservant does not get paid. You will get your room and board and keep."

"No pay?" Willie shot out, indignant at what the vampire obviously thought was a fair shake. "You've got to be kidding. I ain't fetching and carrying around this dump for free!" He didn't want to work even for money, so the thought of doing it for nothing was almost laughable.

But Barnabas didn't seem to think so. His approach toward Willie was slow, and thoughtful, and serious. He stopped only a foot away, and with the candles behind him, his face was almost entirely in shadow. They were close enough so that the air from the vampire's lungs was being drawn into his own, that is, if vampires even needed to breathe, and Willie found that he had no idea, and didn't really want to know, and in a panic, found that he had no air at all. But he couldn't back away, he'd learned that fast in prison; the secret to winning a confrontation was never being the man who backed down first. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. Taking a huge, deep, hitching breath, he dug his heels in and felt the small of his back curving away in spite of himself. All of his body was moving away from Barnabas, everything but his feet, which felt nailed to the floor, and his head, which had dropped forward almost to his chest. His hands were fists, as if ready for a fight, but his knees felt as if they were turning to jelly.

A huge, cold hand slammed against his throat, catching him off guard, and Barnabas tightened that hand and pressed Willie backwards. Kept pressing until his spine was almost bent in half over the sink. The chill of the metal basin met with the chill of contact of the vampire's skin, and the shiver raced through him all at once. His cry of surprise was nonexistent as his hands scrabbled for hold on the sink's ledge, which cut into him like a giant, slicing blade.

"I will give you one more chance, Willie," said Barnabas with utter calmness, "to reconsider your attitude and your answer. Your attitude will be compliant and your answer will be an affirmative one. Otherwise, I will find a shovel and you will find yourself digging your own grave before I bury you alive in it. Is that understood?"

With a sudden motion, Barnabas lifted him up off the sink and flung him against the cast-iron stove. It too was ice cold, and as Willie fell against it with his chin, he realized that the taste of blood in his mouth was the only warm thing he knew. He struggled to right himself before the vampire came closer, but he was there, a hand clamped on Willie's upper arm, encircling it completely, biting into the muscle there. As he was hauled to his feet, he put out one hand on the stove to steady himself.

"I am waiting," said Barnabas, his tone suggesting that he wasn't willing to wait very long. He let Willie go.

Willie brought a hand to his mouth and wiped away the sweat from his upper lip. Tasted the copper in his mouth a second before Barnabas said, "I smell blood, Willie."

The vampire took a step forward.

Hastily, Willie swallowed, and then swallowed again, his stomach churning in anger when the blood hit its empty walls. He'd had nothing but water recently, and before that only a thin soup up at Collinwood. And before that? It had been days since he'd eaten. He had only a second's notice as the spit started building up in his mouth, mixing with the blood, and he raced past Barnabas and out the back door, clamping his hands to his face. It was either that, or Barnabas would have vomit all over his leather shoes, and Willie had a feeling that that wouldn't go over well. 

He made it to the muddy patch just beyond the door, his knees in the soft ground, and, curled over, holding his stomach, he emptied its contents onto the ground. And prayed to whatever gods there were, prayed with everything he had, as his stomach clenched and heaved, and as the snot ran, and his eyes watered, that Barnabas would wait for his answer. He'd say _yes_ , he would, he'd work for nothing, for _nothing_ , if only Barnabas wouldn't start looking for that shovel just yet. He was shivering all over, cold to the bone, when his body finally decided it was through, and behind him he heard the door open and the footsteps of a man on the flagstones.

There was a light mist coming down, tanged with the salt of the sea, but it was dark all around, everywhere he looked. 

"Come into the house when you're finished," said a voice in the darkness.

Relief raced through him as he heard the door being shut, and he wiped his upper lip and nose on the sleeve of his jacket. With the other sleeve, his fingers pulling it taut, he wiped his mouth, hard, until his lips stung and his tongue was raw. If he was going back in there, and it certainly appeared that he was, he didn't want any part of him to smell like blood. Experimentally, he swallowed, but only tasted bile and spit. And Barnabas was hardly likely to go crazy for that.

He stood up, his knees knocking together uncontrollably, his head pounding from the earlier landing against the stove, and went into the house. He washed up at the pump, sluicing the cold water through his mouth and spitting it back out. His jacket, since it was splattered with blood and now vomit, he hung on the back of one of the few upright chairs. There was only one candle now. He picked it up off the table. Following the scent of burning paraffin, which was unbelievably sharp in the still, moist air, he found Barnabas in the front room, staring at a portrait over the empty, dead fireplace. He seemed not to notice, or care, that the entire room was in shambles, that the wind was whistling through most of the empty panes, or that everything in the room, in the whole house, was covered with layer after layer of dust. The vampire only had eyes for the portrait, some woman, pretty enough, but obviously long dead. And yet he stared at it, his body absolutely still.

Willie stopped at the threshold of the sitting room, holding the candlestick tightly, as if it were his protection from fear. His movement caused the flame of the candle that Barnabas held to flicker briefly, and the vampire turned to look at him. Hair dark as ebony, eyes unfathomable, unreadable, and that expression of stone which told Willie nothing at all.

"And your answer?" asked Barnabas, almost politely, almost as if they were both men of good standing, and one had made the other an offer.

"Uh," he started out, and then swallowed, grimacing at the nasty aftertaste in his throat. "I'll work for ya," he shrugged, unsure of his voice, "uh, what is it you want me to do?" Willie felt something inside of him slip away. He had given his compliance and his affirmation, and he might just as well have laid his soul at the vampire's feet. He struggled to keep his stomach calm and his breath quiet in his chest. Not that any of it mattered; Barnabas could probably hear his heart beating as clearly as if it were a drum Willie was pounding.

"You will wait on me as I require it," announced Barnabas, turning back to the portrait for a moment as he righted a table and placed the candle on it. "And you will do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you. Otherwise, I will punish you. Do you understand?"

"Uh," said Willie, but it came out as a grunt. He'd meant to say _yes_ , of course he had, but his tongue seemed to have stopped working.

"What was that?" asked Barnabas, turning back to face Willie.

"Y-yes," he answered, his voice sounding small in his own ears. "Yes, I understand."

"Good," said Barnabas, his eyes now lighting on the dark corners of the room. He almost smiled then, looking at the plaster. "So let us have no more trouble on that account."

With a sweep of his hand, Barnabas pointed to the whole room, and then the whole house, lost in the darkness beyond their two candles. "And during the day, when I do not require you to do anything specific, you will make yourself useful fixing up this place. The Old House, as my cousin called it, which is what we used to call it in my day, after the New House was built." He seemed to be waxing reminiscent, and Willie was content to let him go on, figuring it was better that the house was the focus of Barnabas' attention. Better it than him. "But it is not so old that it does not require and deserve the affection and attention of the people living in it. Do you not agree, Willie?

"Huh?" He was caught off guard, and he jerked to attention, fighting the fatigue that was catching up with him with the speed of a galloping horse. The candle in his hand flickered madly.

"I want you to take steps to restore this house to its former glory. Every pane of glass, every wall panel, every curtain, everything from the roof to the floorboards. No expense must be spared."

"B--" He stopped, unsure of how much he could say.

"But what?"

"B-but Barnabas, I ain't a carpenter. Sure, I've fixed a window or two, unstopped an old sink, but nothing like what you're talking about." He shook his head to clear it, wanting to make sure that Barnabas understood that he wasn't refusing to work, just that he wasn't up to what Barnabas had planned. "I'll work for ya, sure, like I said I'd do, but this," he waved the candle at the darkness, feeling the weight of responsibility looming heavily over his head, "I can't do nothing that fancy."

"I'm entirely certain that you can," replied Barnabas, smoothly. "Start with what you know, make the house weatherproof, and then work from there. I'm sure you will find that you know how to do more than you think you do."

"But, Barnabas, I can't--"

The vampire held up his hand to stop him and then dropped it. He looked at Willie directly. Willie had to force himself not to take a step backwards. He'd already buckled in front of Barnabas once this evening; he didn't want to do it a second time.

"You will fix up this house, Willie, and what you do not know how to do, you will learn how to do. Do I make myself clear? I'm not asking for argument or discussion, Willie. What I want from you is obedience." There was no gentleness in Barnabas' face, none whatsoever. He seemed to think that all he had to do was snap his fingers and Willie could transform the Old House into a palace. And he didn't want to hear any different.

"Answer me, Willie."

His mouth worked, but there was nothing coming out. His tongue tasted like cotton wool and the back of his head was pounding. But he had to answer, otherwise Barnabas was going to slide forward like an angry snake and strike before Willie had time to take another breath.

"I-I--" he tried, sounding more like he was about to sneeze. Then he swallowed the taste in his mouth and tried again. "I'll try, B-barnabas, I'll work for you, like I said I would, honest, only p-please, don't, don't--"

"Don't what?"

"Don't expect miracles, huh?" He let his breath all out in a rush and was surprised to find that a smile was playing across Barnabas' lips. It wasn't exactly a nice smile, but it was a change from the earlier expression of stone.

"Fine, Willie," replied Barnabas, the smile fading, "we will take it slow, in deference to your lack of journeyman status." He reached into his pocket and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.

"I contacted a dealer from Boston, who will meet you, along with the bank manager, tomorrow at 10:00 at the Collinsport National Bank. Come here."

Willie walked forward cautiously until he was about a foot away.

"Take this," said Barnabas, placing it in Willie's hand, "and show it to the dealer. His name is Waterson, and I've arranged to take a loan with the bank against the value of this piece. Use the money to purchase what you need, car, supplies, and whathaveyou. Bring me the receipts, and I will make an account of your spending. Anything within reason for the house or for yourself. I will leave you a list, here on the table, in the morning of those things that I require. There will be another list on the table of those duties which will require your immediate attention. Any questions?"

The weight in his hand spoke unquestionably to Willie and told him exactly what he was holding. It was a brooch, with a heavy stone set in silver and surrounded by diamonds. His hand knew, and his blood knew, right through the cloth without ever having seen it. His other hand, holding the candle, shuddered, and he hoped that Barnabas would mark it up to the coldness of the Old House and not any excitement on Willie's part. He'd finally come across what he'd been looking for.

Barnabas placed his hand over Willie's, tightening until the inside of his fingers were bitten by the brooch's sharp edges. "And of course, if anything happens to this brooch before the dealer is able to meet you, well," the hand pressed closed to an almost brutal tightness before suddenly letting go, "I suggest that nothing happens to this brooch that I have not authorized. It belonged to my mother."

There was nothing in Barnabas' tone that spoke of anything but genuine concern over the brooch's well being, but Willie knew without being told that any plans he may have had, however fleeting, of taking the money and running, were bound to fail and utterly hopeless. Any attempts he made to do such a thing would be met with a horrible fate, being buried alive on the top of the list.

"Nothin'll happen to it, honest, Barnabas."

"See that it does not."

He nodded, even as Barnabas turned away, sweat breaking out on his forehead. His hand, heavy with the weight of the brooch, began to cramp up.

As if sensing this, finally sensing that his newly acquired servant was drooping with fatigue, Barnabas announced, as he faced the portrait once more, "You may retire for the night. I shall not need you till sunset tomorrow."

"Uh," started Willie, eternally grateful to be given permission to sleep at last, "where---?"

"The servant's quarters appears to have burnt down some time ago," said Barnabas, eyes still on the portrait, "otherwise I'd have you stay out there. However, you may sleep in any of the rooms over the kitchen. In the northwest wing."

"Up there?" he asked, his voice coming out a squeak.

_In the dark, all alone?_

"And where else?" responded Barnabas, turning to look at him again. "You can hardly sleep in the kitchen, Willie."

Since that was exactly where Willie had been planning to bunk down for the night, he swallowed what he was going to say, and just nodded. Turned to go, watching Barnabas go back to the portrait, and eyed the stairs with trepidation.

"Until sunset, Willie," said Barnabas. "And I shall expect a full report."

The wooden stairs creaked with protest as he made his way up them, wondering if they would collapse under his weight. The darkness was parted by the light of the candle in his hand, but only barely, and behind him, as he walked, the darkness joined together again. There was no going downstairs and trying to sneak into the kitchen; Barnabas would find out and then demand an answer, and Willie wasn't prepared to tell the vampire that he was now terrified of the dark.

The weight of the brooch in his hand was almost unbearably heavy.

But which way was northwest? How the hell was he supposed to know which wing to go to? The corridor at the top of the stairs went left and right, and since there was a large, fallen beam on his right, he went left. Several doors led off the corridor, all dark and paneled wood. Some of them wouldn't open, the wood frames swelled shut with the dampness of passing years. Others had no doors at all, and the rooms' interiors were revealed as dark, dust-lined hollows. 

The farthest door down the hall, though, had a door that worked, and he reckoned that it was directly over the kitchen, like Barnabas had said. There was a bed frame, though the mattress was gone, and a fireplace framed with crumbling brick. At one end of the room, against the far wall, metal pipes came up, probably to carry the smoke from the stove in the kitchen. He wish he'd had a chance to light it, to warm the room, but neither the pipes nor the fireplace were going to warm him tonight. And his jacket was downstairs. But there was no way he was going to go after it, not with Barnabas glowering in the front room.

He held the candle higher and saw a lumpy pile. Going over to it, he kicked at it, and discovered that it was two blankets, worn, but not all that dusty. He wondered who had brought them here, and then he realized he didn't care. David maybe, for one of his games. Putting the candle on the floor, his fingers discovered that they were wool, and so he laid one down on the floor, and curled his body up on it. The other blanket, he pulled up high, almost over his head. The candle still burned inches from his face, but his eyes and his body didn't care how bright it was. He cradled the cloth-covered jewel with both hands against his chest. Shivered. And then passed out.

**Going to the Village**

He reached the town just before ten o'clock, having made it by the skin of his teeth. His watch had been lost in a poker game sometime the year before, and by the time the stiffness in his body alerted him to the fact that he was awake, the sun had already risen and there was absolutely no way to tell what time it was. He'd grabbed Barnabas' lists and bolted out the door, jacketless, and hoofed it as fast as he could. By the time he arrived in town, he was bathed in sweat and layered in dust from the road.

It was five miles into Collinsport, but at least the road was downhill. It would be five miles uphill if he wasn't able to buy a car, and he had his doubts about that. For the hundredth time that morning, he fingered the brooch in his pocket. The clasp was shut, and the whole thing was wrapped in a cloth, but he trailed his fingers along one edge, pushing the cloth aside. This was the collateral he was supposed to use, and he'd been enjoined not to loose it. He held back a shudder at what would happen if that unhappy circumstance were to come to pass.

There was no time to do anything but make his way to the downtown district where the banks were. He'd never been in this part of town; when he and Jason had arrived, they'd stuck close to the waterfront, where the bars were, and restaurants selling oysters on the half shell. Barnabas had instructed him to go to the Collinsport National Bank and no other, and so it took him another 15 minutes just to figure out which one it was. Upon finding it, he eyed the building, pretending the apprehension he felt was just hunger, and squared his shoulders. Opening the door, he went in.

Of course it was ritzy. Like all good banks it wanted to give its customers the impression that there was plenty of money to be had and that any money stored there would be well guarded. He'd never done a bank job himself, too ambitious by half, but the cons in the joint had told him that the ritzier a place was, the better it was protected. As he gazed around at the chandeliers above, and the highly polished stone floor below, and the elegant decor, he was brought up with surprise as someone tapped him firmly on the shoulder. Whirling, he came face to face with a bank guard. He was instantly aware of his own somewhat shabby appearance.

"This where you supposed to be, Mac?" asked the guard.

It took Willie a second to remember that he was here on business, legitimate business; the guard reminded him suddenly of being in jail again.

"Uh, uh, yeah, I'm here to do business, that's it. I'm supposed to see the bank manager and a dealer from Boston. Waterson." He nodded his head, hiding his nervousness behind as pleasant an expression as he could manage.

"That so." The guard seemed dubious.

Another guard came up, standing behind his friend, and watched Willie with narrowed eyes.

This made him even more nervous, on top of everything else, making his stammer worse.

"I-I'm supposed to see the b-bank manager."

Barnabas would be highly displeased if he had to come into town and haul his newly acquired manservant out of jail during his very first errand.

"What for, Mac?" asked the guard, tipping his head back. "And this better be good, or I'm throwing you out of here."

"M-m-m," was all he could manage. Then he stopped, took a deep breath and started again. "I-I'm supposed to do a deal for Mr. Collins. He sent me here, into town and all? Wants me make a trade for a loan with some collateral." He let out the remainder of the air in his lungs with a whoosh, feeling the sweat break out on his upper lip, realizing that none of what he'd just said made any sense. The fact that he had mud stains on the knees of his pants and large circles of sweat under his arms probably didn't help with the impression he was making any either. 

The guard's head snapped back at this. "Mr. Collins? But why didn't he come himself and make a withdrawal? He's got an account here."

"Uh," Willie licked his suddenly dry lips, "no, he doesn't."

"Are you telling me, Mac," said the guard, more on edge now, "that Mr. Collins doesn't have an account at this bank? The Collins family has been banking here for over 100 years."

Then Willie understood the problem.

"Y-yeah, I know, but I'm here on account of some business I got for Mr. Barnabas Collins. From England," he added, seeing the guard's blank look.

The other guard stepped forward and said something under his breath. The first guard, nodded and made a face, and then nodded at Willie.

"I guess I'll take you into see the bank manager, Mac. Follow me."

Without further ado, he was escorted in to the bank manager's office. If possible, it was even swankier than the main lobby, with plants and a huge cherrywood desk. The bank manager was on the phone when Willie walked in, and he looked at them with a puzzled expression.

"Okay, Jones," he was saying into the phone, "tell Martha it's all on for the weekend. Okay, bye."

"Sorry, Mr. Tyler," said the guard when the bank manager had hung up. "This man is here on behalf of Mr. Collins. Something about a loan and collateral?" The guard turned briefly toward Willie. "What did you say your name was?"

"Willie. Willie Loomis," he said, as clearly as he could.

"Thank you, Mike," said Tyler. "You can go now."

The door was shut firmly but quietly behind the guard.

And then with a smile that shocked Willie to his core, Tyler leaned over the desk and extended his hand.

"Mr. Loomis, is it? I've been expecting you."

Willie took the hand and shook it, taking a seat where Tyler indicated. And then Tyler, as bank managers will, took over the meeting.

"You're a bit late, Loomis, but never mind that. Waterson's just getting some coffee. Hope you like it with cream and sugar, 'cause that's how you're getting it."

Almost as soon as he'd finished speaking, a man entered, and behind him a secretary, carrying a tray with three steaming cups and a plate of cookies.

"Hey, Waterson," said Tyler, "this is Loomis, guess we can get started now. That'll be all, Millie."

Waterson, an older man with nondescript features and grey hair, shook Willie's hand and took the seat next to him. The coffee was passed out and the cookies as well, and Willie's hand shook as he forced himself to only take two. He could have eaten the whole plate and not even blinked. The coffee was hot and hit the bottom of his stomach with an irritated surge, but at least it stayed down.

In short order, he'd handed over the brooch to Waterson, who whistled under his breath seemingly in spite of himself. Tyler had no such reservations, and his oath made Willie even more nervous than he already was.

"How much should I write out the paperwork on the loan for, Waterson?" asked Tyler.

The dealer was silent for a moment, and then pulled out his glass to examine the jewel. Tyler obligingly pushed the desk lamp in his direction, and Waterson laid a piece of black velvet beneath it, and laid the jewel on top of it. Against the black velvet, the brooch was more beautiful than anything Willie had ever seen. His mouth watered, and his hands ached to hold it again, and he couldn't believe it had been in his possession for almost 12 hours.

"Well," asked Tyler, when it appeared that Waterson was going to examine the jewel all morning, "how much?"

Waterson took a deep breath. "Well, given the diamonds, and the semi-precious stone in the middle, and the silver setting, if this were a modern piece, I would say $10,000."

It was a handsome sum, and Willie found himself nodding with the other man.

"But," continued Waterson, holding it in his hand and running his thumb over the surface, "since it's 175 years old, it's almost priceless."

Tyler, obviously tired of Waterson's grandstanding, sighed in a long-suffering fashion. "How much?"

Waterson named the true sum of the brooch's value, and Willie nearly fell off his chair.

"But, I can't give that kind of money to him!" sputtered Tyler, and as he pointed across the desk at Willie, Willie not only became incredibly self-conscious of his tattered state as both men looked at him, but also realized that Tyler's earlier friendliness had more to do with who he worked for, and that Tyler would just as soon have been dealing with a Collins. Any Collins. "We'll put it in an account, I'll set up an account."

"Uh," started Willie, but was interrupted by Tyler pressing the intercom for his secretary. "Millie, get in here. Bring that safety deposit box, an insurance form, and the paperwork for an account."

"Yes, Mr. Tyler," said a disembodied voice. Then the intercom clicked silent.

Willie wished someone else were sitting where he was, as he stared at the brooch, wiping the dried mud from his knees. Someone who was more suited to this type of work. "Uh, Mr. Tyler?"

Startled by the entrance of his secretary at that moment, Tyler waved him away, "Not now, Mr. Loomis."

"But Mr. Tyler--"

Tyler was busy taking the forms from Millie, and motioning for her to put the safety deposit box on the side table. Then he waved her out of the room. "Tell me you're not serious, Waterson."

"Jeweler's mark on the back, Boston, pre-revolution date. It's authentic alright." Waterson's voice was calm, but Willie could see the pitch of excitement in his eyes.

Willie watched Tyler filling out a pile of forms. He had to try again, otherwise Barnabas would be very displeased. "Mr. Tyler, I have to tell you that Mr. Collins, he doesn't want--"

He stopped as Tyler looked up at him. "Doesn't want an account? With this amount of cash? He must be mad!"

Willie didn't really care to debate Barnabas' sanity, and the remembrance of the Thing that he'd seen in the vampire's eyes drove him to speak slowly and carefully, knowing that he needed to carry Barnabas' wishes out to the letter.

"Mr. Collins said that you were to give me the cash for the loan of only part of the value of the brooch. He doesn't want a loan against the whole thing." Here Willie paused, struggling to remember if the instructions had been any more specific than that.

"Only part," repeated Tyler. "How much is part?"

"Uh, I don't know. Enough to set up housekeeping and start some investments."

"And he doesn't want to start an account here?" Tyler looked entirely dubious.

Willie shook his head.

"And he doesn't want to invest through the bank either. Where is he intending to go with his investments?" Tyler demanded.

Willie shook his head again. "Mr. Collins didn't exactly say," he replied, his voice faint, feeling his stomach churn.

A small silence fell in the office, and Willie's eyes were drawn again to the brooch on the velvet. Waterson too was looking at it, as if his mouth also watered, and for a second, their eyes met, and Waterson almost smiled at him. Almost, of course, because they both were aware that Tyler's blood pressure was going up as Tyler pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand.

"Lord," said Tyler, "spare me from the Collins family." Then he sighed.

"Give the man his money," said Waterson, unexpectedly. "Roger and Liz both vouched for this Mr. Barnabas Collins didn't they? Who are we to go against the founding family?"

Tyler almost laughed then, and a private joke was shared between the two men.

"Alright," said Tyler, reaching for the intercom. "I'll write a ticket for $5,000 and Millie will bring it in. And you _will_ be signing a receipt."

Willie nodded speechless as Tyler buzzed Millie and passed along some exacting instructions.

"Well, I hate to see this thing locked up in your vault, but better your bank than somewhere else," said Waterson, standing to go. "Bye, Mr. Loomis," he held out his hand and Willie shook it, noticing only now that there was still something dark streaked along the back of his own wrist. Waterson noticed it too, but only shook his head. "Take care now."

When he was gone, Millie entered, a fat envelope in one hand, and more paperwork in the other. She laid it on her boss's desk and left as quietly as she had come.

"So your boss is going to fix up the Old House on the Collin's estate, is that right?" Tyler nodded at Willie, and Willie could see the dollar signs in his eyes. He didn't need an answer, but Willie spoke anyway.

"Y-yes, that's right."

"And so, you'll be needing supplies, won't you? Nails, plaster, that sort of thing?"

Tyler seemed to know all about it, but he was just making conversation; most of his attention was on the paperwork on his desk. 

"Well, I was going to check into that today, and a car to haul things around, you know, wood and stuff." He looked at Tyler, wondering if he'd said too much, or presumed that he could say anything at all.

But Tyler was nodding. "Fine, fine, that sounds just fine. Big job though."

Willie nodded that this was true.

"You go straight over to Brooks Hardware, they'll take care of you."

Willie nodded that he would do this, thinking that Tyler would have been a great deal less helpful had he not been aware of who Willie worked for.

Tyler pushed several papers over to Willie, and handed him a heavy, black pen. There was a blank line for his signature on each page, and Willie signed all of them, the penmanship of his name an undignified scrawl next to Tyler's elegant slant. Then, pausing only to shake his head as if he didn't believe what he was doing, Tyler handed the envelope over to Willie whose mouth went suddenly dry when he realized he was holding five thousand dollars in his hands.

The hard part over, apparently, Tyler sat back in his high-backed red leather chair. "Now, about that car...let me think," Tyler stared at his leafiest green plant as he thought. "I know, you go to Tim's Auto Lot. I know it sounds like a dive," he laughed a little as if sharing a secret with Willie about the lower classes, "and it looks like a dive, but he's got good solid cars, and he knows how to fix them up. Tell him I sent you, okay? He'll give you a fair deal, and you can pay him with cash. No loans, you tell him that. Cash up front."

"O-okay," said Willie, fingering the envelope.

"Okay, then," replied Tyler, standing up and holding out his hand. Willie shook it, realizing that the meeting was at an end. He headed toward the door, and opened it, pausing to turn and look at Tyler. Tyler was already reaching for the phone, shaking his head as he did so. Obviously he was still somewhat shocked at how much money he'd just handed over to a guy covered with sweatstains and mud.

Willie's reception on the rest of his errands was much the same: suspicion, and then, upon learning who he worked for, dubious acceptance. 

Tim, of Tim's Auto Lot, on the other hand, didn't care who Willie was, or who he worked for, or what Tyler had said. This made Willie feel a bit more comfortable, it was more familiar to deal with. With Tim, he knew exactly where he stood: Tim didn't like anyone. But he did invite Willie into his shed when it began to rain, and offered him some coffee. No conversation though, Tim was listening to the radio and staring out the window.

"You want that station wagon, I reckon," he said, tapping on the glass.

"Yeah, that sounds right." It was a '63 Oldsmobile station wagon, with a red leather interior and the biggest V-8 engine on the market. It was so powerful it could outdrag a Mercedes, according to Tim, and the body was so big that it had been made by an ambulance company.

Tim named a price, and Willie dickered a bit with him, and then paid $1,500, in cash, out of his pocket. And when it stopped raining, he took the keys and left the shed, planning to drive to a diner he'd passed on the way there. The station wagon was a thrumming iron power beneath his hands on the steering wheel, and the urge to step on the gas and keep on driving overtook him. But he was starving, and drove instead to the diner and parked the car. 

He stepped into the washroom and tried to clean up at least a little bit before asking for a table. But at the diner they didn't know who he was or who he worked for, and the crowd inside also seemed a tad unwashed. There were advantages to that. He was served his meal without undue attention, or any snide looks or disparaging comments. They didn't know who he was, and so, to them, he was just an average Joe. This was not the side of town that Burke Devlin or his crowed frequented, and so he was taken at face value. It was a nice change to the cold shoulder he'd gotten in town before, at the Blue Whale, or up at Collinwood.

Brooks Hardware store was only accommodating after they saw the color of his pockets, an attitude that Willie trusted entirely. He told the clerk that he needed supplies to fix up an old house, and the clerk, obviously up on which houses in the area were being renovated, wanted to know _which_ old house. When Willie replied _the_ Old House, there was a sudden, stifled guffaw of laughter and surprise, and then he was quickly taken pity on and given written guides on renovation, as well as a set of tools and supplies with which to start. They wished him luck as he left the store, but the looks on their faces told him that he would need a whole lot more than luck.

He then went from store to store, gathering the things on Barnabas' lists as best he could, as well as food and supplies for himself. He even managed to acquire a mattress at the goodwill store, along with extra blankets and bedding. By the time he found the candles and coal, the back of the station wagon was packed, and the sun was going down. He stepped on the gas and raced back to the Old House, pulling into the drive next to the house just as twilight set in.

Barnabas waited on the front porch, silent as Willie got out of the car.

"What is that?" he asked, gesturing at the station wagon with a nod of his head.

"Uh, it's a car, Barnabas."

"No, it's not," replied Barnabas assuredly. "It's a battleship."

Willie didn't know how Barnabas even knew what a battleship was, let alone what one looked like, but the vampire seemed to have adapted entirely to the present day, and perhaps had taken advantage of the library up at Collinwood. But Willie wasn't asking, and neither was Barnabas forthcoming.

"Uh, yeah, anyway..."

"You're late," said Barnabas, his attention now on Willie. "The sun has already gone down."

"Yeah, I know," said Willie, sighing, "but everything took longer than I thought it would, honest Barnabas, I hurried an' everything."

"Never mind that now," said Barnabas. Something in the way he said it told Willie that his mind was elsewhere. "Unload all of this and meet me in the drawing room. I want to go over your receipts."

And with that, he went back into the house, leaving Willie a station wagon full of goods to unload, by himself, in the dark. It was an exhausting job going up and down the stairs and back and forth between the kitchen and the front door. And because there was junk all over the floor in the kitchen, he'd had to pile everything on the table, and of course, at one point, half of it came tumbling down on the floor anyway. Sweating, Willie stared at the upside-down hammer and the carton of nails spilled all over and the rest of it and decided to leave it for the moment. Barnabas was waiting.

As he stood there, hands fists at his sides, legs still aching from all the stair climbing, next to Barnabas and the small table he'd fixed up, Barnabas accepted the envelope and carefully counted the cash inside. He looked around briefly for something to write with and Willie handed him a pen. It looked extremely small in the vampire's hand, and as he looked at it, it occurred to Willie that Barnabas didn't know how it worked. Gingerly, he took the pen from Barnabas and clicked the end of it once or twice. Then, without a word, he handed the pen back, shrugging, as if confusion over a ball-point pen were an ordinary occurrence. Barnabas gave a small nod, as if he approved of the way that Willie had handled the matter, and turned back to the bookkeeping. Then, one by one, Barnabas totaled up the receipts, and compared that amount against the cash on hand.

"It's $4.35 short, Willie."

He thought back quickly, realizing that he'd never picked up a receipt at the diner, where he'd also purchased a pack of cigarettes. "Sorry, Barnabas, I forgot at the diner."

This seemed to satisfy the vampire, until he looked again at the receipt for the groceries. "You paid this much for groceries?" Barnabas' eyebrows shot into his hairline with surprise.

It was all too much. He was tired, and his feet ached, and he hoped to have enough energy to set up his bed before he collapsed. By candlelight, no less. "I have to eat," Willie snapped, "even if you don't."

This remark was met by utter silence, followed by those dark eyes focusing themselves on him instead of the receipts and the money. "I beg your pardon? What did you just say?"

Willie shut his eyes. He wasn't used to it, he just wasn't. Yeah, he could play the gentleman, but only long enough to charm some pretty female to get close to. But this, this servant thing was beyond him.

"I didn't say anythin'," he answered quickly, his eyes pleading with Barnabas silently. "Just thinking out loud, tha's all."

"I'll let it go, Willie," said Barnabas finally, "seeing as you've probably misunderstood my meaning. But we'll have no more similar outbursts in future, you understand?"

"Yes, Barnabas."

"A manservant may speak his mind, if he feels his opinion will benefit his master, but I will not have any more belligerent remarks."

"Yes, Barnabas," he said again, his voice a whisper.

"What I meant was," said Barnabas, waving the grocery receipt, "that the price of food seems extremely high, even for this time of year."

"That-that's just how much things cost, Barnabas, honest. An' it doesn't much matter what time of year it is, prices just keep going up."

"Ah," remarked Barnabas, apparently satisfied. "Inflation. I hadn't thought about that."

Willie waited, trying not to sway with fatigue.

"You may go, Willie," said Barnabas absently.

Willie tried not to sag with relief, but was stopped short when Barnabas said his name again.

"Oh, and Willie," the vampire's glance was dark.

"Yes, Barnabas?"

"I want you to go back into town tomorrow and get a haircut. And clothes more suitable to a manservant. There's a gentleman's clothier on 12th, go there and tell them you work for me and in what capacity. They will outfit you properly."

Willie had to bite his tongue to keep the angry reply from leaving his mouth. It was going too far, it really was, but one look at Barnabas' face and he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. And that was the worst part of all.

**Josette's Room**

If someone had told him 10 years ago that he'd be spending his days scrubbing hardwood floors, dusting cobwebs, running errands, and essentially keeping house for a 175 year-old vampire in a 200 year old mansion, he would have found a gun, taken it, and shot himself in the head.

But that's exactly what he was doing, up to his elbows in fast-cooling soapy water, scrubbing the front steps after they'd been blackened by the chimney guys who'd come the day before. And from his hauling garbage to the town dump earlier. Barnabas had mentioned that he should use the kitchen entrance, but sometimes he forgot.

A stiff little breeze was starting to build up now, spraying the water all over him until he was soaked and soapy. Time to rinse the steps and let them dry and tend to indoor chores until sunset. Or, he could haul the most recent pile of trash to the dump and then stop in town for a hot shower at the Y and then a hot meal at the cafe. That would make him feel miles better, and be a much needed break. Barnabas had taken to roaming the halls at night, his echoing footsteps stealing what little sleep Willie could manage. And mumbling to himself about his beloved Josette.

Willie now knew full well who Josette was, had taken her portrait into Bangor to be restored just last week. What he didn't understand was what this had to do with anything. Josette was long dead. And besides which hadn't she married someone else, a brother or something? He thought about looking it up in one of his books on the family history, but the pull of the hot meal and shower was too strong.

By the time he got back, it was dark. His stomach was full of the meatloaf special and his newly clean hair was mostly out of his eyes. But when he came in the front door to find Barnabas waiting in the drawing room, it all went sour. His dinner turned to acid, and a small, cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

But Barnabas wasn't angry, he was jubilant. In a terribly good humor, he announced that he wanted one of the upstairs bedrooms to be restored to its former glory right away. Which is what he'd said about the whole house entire, and it had taken Willie weeks and weeks to rough out the kitchen, front hall and sitting room. And those only crudely.

"The library will come later," said Barnabas, holding his hand up to stay Willie's questions. "There will be time enough for everything, now that I have found my Josette again."

At Willie's dropped jaw, he said, "You seem surprised."

It was entirely too early in the game, as he had learned, to be speaking his mind, but at this point, he couldn't help it. "But, uh, Barnabas, she's dead, ain't she?"

Apparently not _that_ dead, if the look of passion and joy on Barnabas' face were anything to go by. He grabbed a candelabra and dragged Willie up to the second floor, and to the large corner bedroom at the end of the hall. Like the rest of the house, it was in shambles, peeling wallpaper, cobwebs, and the ever-present smell of dust and mould. Barnabas ran a finger along the mantelpiece, and even in the near-darkness, the gold marble sprang to life.

"I want you to fix it up, Willie, fix this room up exactly the way it was."

"Exactly?" asked Willie, startled. "Sorry, Barnabas, but I don't--"

Instantly Barnabas was right next to him, holding the candles close to his face. There was the Thing, glittering in his eyes. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, with ice in his voice.

"I was just--" Willie stopped to lower his eyes. "I was just thinking we could get someone in, you know, like we did with the chimneys?"

"No," replied Barnabas without hesitation. "I want no more strangers in my house."

"But--" tried Willie, knowing that the people at the hardware store would be over the moon with joy to get their hands on even one of the rooms at the Old House.

Barnabas raised one hand, silencing Willie. "No strangers. They have far too much curiosity and would be asking far too many questions. And for what I have in mind," Barnabas paused to arch his neck proudly, "well, curiosity seekers are the last thing I need."

This confused him. "But don't you want everyone to see? See the work an' everything?" He had thought that was Barnabas' original plan, restoring the house to its old glory. And why else for but an audience?

"You will find out soon enough, Willie, why I don't want anyone around. No, you will be the one to make the repairs on Josette's room."

"But Barnabas," he protested, feeling the weight of responsibility pile on his shoulders, "I ain't no carpenter."

"Well," said Barnabas, "you are now a carpenter."

***

His cigarette habit, for the most part, went quickly by the wayside, soon after his arrival at the Old House. Mostly Barnabas hadn't noticed, or was too preoccupied to notice, but pretty soon he became irritated by cigarette butts being left on the edges of things.

"What is this?" asked Barnabas.

"Huh?" Willie looked over his shoulder as he adjusted the drape that he was hanging in Josette's room. He saw what Barnabas was pointing at, right away. It was the last part of one of his cigarettes, smoldering slightly as it dangled from the edge of his toolbox.

"Oh, that's mine, Barnabas, I'll get it."

A bit of the ash had flaked to the carpet, and he swept them around with his hand, bringing the butt to his mouth for one last draw before he put it out.

With a snarl, Barnabas snatched the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out in his hand.

"How dare you smoke that filthy object in here!"

"W-wha-?"

Astonished, he saw Barnabas' open palm in the air, seconds before it landed, slamming into his face, sending his neck snapping to one side.

"How dare you befoul this room with your opiates!"

He had to blink several times to clear his head and figure out what the problem was. Cigarette smoke in Josette's room was obviously the problem. He took a step back, rubbing the side of his hot, stinging face.

"Okay, Barnabas, I won't smoke in here n' more."

Looking up, he saw that Barnabas' face was still dark with anger, brows lowered together, and that scowl firmly in place, which could terrify him all by itself.

"I won't do it any more, honest."

Barnabas moved closer, and Willie discovered that his heels were against the bedpost and he could no longer move away.

"Do you have any more of these abominable things?" Barnabas demanded.

"I-I, in my tool chest."

"Get them."

He had to step sideways to get past Barnabas, keeping his head down, and focused on the tool chest. Inside was one half-finished pack of cigarettes and a small box of matches. He straightened up and placed the pack in Barnabas' outstretched hand.

"Do you have any more in this house?"

Shaking his head, he kept his eyes on his hands as he uttered a very small, "No, Barnabas."

The vampire moved closer now, and Willie could not keep his feet from trying to take a step backwards.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd believe you. Fortunately for me, I do know you quite well. Well enough to know that you are a perpetual liar. So I suggest that if you have any more cigarettes in this house, you dispose of them immediately. Is that clear?"

Willie nodded slowly, hair falling in his eyes as he kept them on his hands.

"I said, is that clear?"

"Y-yes, Barnabas."

He began to breathe a sigh of relief as Barnabas stepped away and walked toward the door. Only then did he feel comfortable enough to raise his head and look at Barnabas from across the room. Barnabas opened the door and stopped, his hand on the knob.

"And if I catch you smoking in this house..." There was a long, dark pause as Barnabas appraised him. "Well, I suggest you don't."

Willie nodded and found himself still nodding at the empty air after the door shut.

He'd taken to walking down the beach during the day sometimes, just to get away from the house. There was a path just behind the ice house that led to another zig-zag path down to the beach. It smelled powerfully like dead fish at the bottom of the hill, especially when the tide was out. But the beach was clean, quiet, with a nice, little breeze to keep him company as he watched the waves crashing on the rocks. Except for the seagulls, there was no one to scream at him there.

Sometimes, he would dip into his secret stash of cigarettes that he kept on a high, dry shelf in the ice house, which Barnabas had pointed out was where he should store anything perishable. Then he would carry them down to the beach and smoke one or two, and relax in the sun, trying to forget.

It was hard to forget.

Then he would head back up the beach path to the Old House, wash his hands at the pump in the sink and prepare the house for sunset.

He'd reckoned without the vampire's keen sense of smell.

They were working on the vanity table for Josette's room, which had fallen apart over the years and needed to be put back together. Willie was sitting on the floor, working on one of the drawers, holding it between his knees as he nailed the bottom of the drawer back on. Barnabas was organizing the stuff to go on the top of the vanity table, taking them out of a small box and placing them on the bed. He was eager to arrange them, and brought the hairbrush and comb over. When he came closer, Willie looked up in time to see the expression on Barnabas' face.

"What's the matter, Barnabas?"

From his very tall height, Barnabas looked down beneath hooded eyes. "Were you burning something in the kitchen earlier?"

With a shrug, Willie went back to his hammer, glad to be, at last, innocent of all charges. "Nope, not me."

Barnabas seemed to be searching for something in the air, and was becoming focused on Willie.

"You smell like smoke."

Willie paused, hammer in mid-air. His eyes found a focus point on the cuff of Barnabas' trouser leg.

"Stand up, Willie."

Swallowing, he laid down his hammer and the vanity drawer, and, wiping his hands on his apron, stood before Barnabas, head bowed.

"What did I tell you about smoking?"

"Not to do it in the house." His voice was low.

A hand grabbed the collar of his shirt, jerking him forward. His head snapped backward and he was looking straight into the vampire's face.

"Why have you purposefully disobeyed me?" roared Barnabas.

"I-I wasn't, I didn't, honest, Barnabas!" he pleaded, pulling back against the firm grasp.

"Liar!" Barnabas was raising one hand to strike him now fury in his eyes.

"But Barnabas, I didn't!" His voice rose to a shriek.

"And now you compound the lie by denying it?" The hand raised even higher.

Willie began to speak very quickly. "You said not to have them in the house, an' not to smoke them in the house, an' so I keep 'em outside an' smoke 'em on the beach sometimes, please Barnabas, you gotta believe me!"

To his eternal astonishment, Barnabas paused, looking him in the eye. The hand lowered, and the grip loosened, and he found that his heels could now touch the ground. Barnabas didn't quite let go, but he was about to.

"When did I say this?"

"I was smokin' a coupla days ago in this room, and you said, don't ever do that in this house, and for me to get those things out of the house. That's what you said." It wasn't an exact quote, and part of it was fudged, but it was enough of the truth that maybe Barnabas would swallow it.

The vampire let him go abruptly, and turned back to his arrangement of objects on the bed.

He paused and looked at Willie. "I will not have you smelling of smoke. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Barnabas."

He still went down to the beach during the day sometimes, even though with the coming of autumn it was chilly in the shade. Sitting there, in the downwind side of some boulders, he would stare out at the ocean, watching the midnight blue water roll in from the distance, caped by frothy white foam that reminded him of horses' manes. And since his hands were now idle, he'd taken to whittling, and bought a fine whittling knife at the hardware store. He hadn't made anything yet during all his visits to the beach, unless he wanted to count the dozen pointed sticks. 

The first one came about by accident. He'd been shaving the end off a stick he'd found, watching the bits fall into the sand absently. The knife cut fine slivers as he turned it in his hands, and then he realized he held a wooden stake. A vampire killer, to be precise, if he ever got up the courage to use it. He doubted that that would ever come to pass, since Barnabas terrified him without even being awake. Still, he had a supply if the need ever came about.

He went down to his private spot soon after finishing the last of his cigarettes. There didn't seem to be any point in buying more, since even the faintest smell of them irritated Barnabas. So, because irritating Barnabas was the last thing he wanted to do, he gave them up. Not that it made a whole lot of difference, of late, Barnabas was irritated by everything. The slightest incident or mishap and he came unglued. At first Willie had tried to handle it like he would Jason on a rampage. Be cool, make a comment or two and then let it go. But with Barnabas, that didn't work at all. He got in a mood and would just as soon smack Willie as look at him. And Willie's calming tactics seemed to work even less since they'd finished Josette's room.

They'd been hanging drapes, doing the last finishing touches on the pale green valance that hung high on the window. Barnabas, in his eagerness to have the project finished, even took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and offered to hold up one end while Willie attached the other. This was enough to throw Willie off his stride. He lifted his end, and was about to step on the step-stool when he stepped too far and missed the stool altogether. He went down, and the curtain came tumbling over his head. Then, when he stood up, his foot caught the edge of the valance and tore a hole right through it.

He froze as the tearing sound echoed in the absolutely still and silent room. Could hardly bear to look at Barnabas, who was lowering his end of the drapes in what appeared to be slow motion. But Barnabas was looking at him, with fury in his eyes.

"You clumsy idiot," snarled Barnabas.

Of course, it wasn't the end of the world, but Barnabas obviously felt it was close enough. Barely holding on to his temper, he shoved the whole mess into Willie's hands.

"You will have this replaced by sunset tomorrow, Willie, or there will be dire consequences, do you understand me?"

Willie nodded, trying to ignore the coldness that raced up his spine. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Barnabas, strode toward the door, flung it open and slammed it behind him before Willie could even catch his breath. And he had no idea why Barnabas hadn't taken his head off then and there, unless it was because he was afraid of getting blood stains on the carpet that would be impossible to take out.

**Visitors to the Old House**

By the time he got back to the Old House from picking up more coal and candles and shingles for the roof, as well as the painting of Josette from Bangor, it was quite late, and he was tired. Tired enough to almost hit the car that was parked out in front of the house. He swerved out of the way and drove around to the side of the house and parked. Coming in through the kitchen, he recognized the voices of Maggie and Joe. What they were doing at the Old House was beyond him; he hadn't even been aware that Barnabas knew anyone outside of the immediate family.

It took him two trips out to the station wagon and back to unload all the supplies, and a separate trip for just for the painting. He leaned it carefully against an inside wall, noting that one edge of the brown wrapper had been torn and hoped that nothing had happened to the painting inside. Stopping at the doorway, he could hear Barnabas bid them goodnight, his voice more smooth and pleasant than Willie had ever heard it. Stranger things had happened, he supposed, but he so seldom had heard Barnabas use those polite and gracious tones that he realized there was something unusual going on.

"Goodnight," said Barnabas clearly.

When Willie heard the door being shut and locked, he stepped out of the kitchen.

"Why were they here?" he asked, before he realized that he should not have. 

The vampire's body actually jerked with surprise, which surprised Willie. Barnabas turned, not answering the question.

"What are your plans for the girl?" asked Willie, persisting in spite of the warning bells going off in his mind.

"You have a job to do," said Barnabas in response.

"No, not again, not tonight." He was beyond tired, and he knew that Barnabas was doing this just to be mean. The vampire was well able to get his own food by this time.

Barnabas started up the stairs and turned, towering over him.

"I think I'm going to loose my mind," he pleaded, gripping the railing with his hands.

Barnabas just looked at him, the darkness rising in his eyes. Willie's heart started racing, and he backed up, biting his lip to keep it from trembling.

"Don't look at me that way," he said, hating the shake in his voice. "I'll go."

And he did go, to find a young calf and hold it till it died.

But later, in his room, in the near darkness broken by only candlelight, he knew that Maggie and Joe fit into Barnabas' plans in a special way, and in a way that wasn't obvious to anyone but Barnabas. The basic social niceties might be beyond him, but even he knew that you didn't go calling at 11 o'clock at night. He turned over in the bed, his back to the candle, and watched the movements of the feathery dark against the wall as the candle flickered back and forth in an unseen draft. 

Pulling the wool blanket almost over his head, he breathed into the hollow created under the covers. He'd discovered, quite by accident, that it helped to take the edge of ice from the sheets a little quicker, and the wool somehow was able retain his body heat better. Too tired to build a fire, sometimes it was the only way to stay warm. And concentrating on the breathing helped to relax him and kept him from thinking too hard.

Thinking was the enemy at the Old House. It hadn't been all that welcome in prison either, because if he started thinking, really started to concentrate on the walls that pressed in on him and the darkness that held hidden terrors, he would get scared way beyond the edges of normal fear. And when he got that scared, he would start climbing the walls. Climbing the walls in prison was one sure way to attract the wrong kind of attention, and so he had quickly learned to stop thinking, almost altogether. Climbing the walls at the Old House would bring even worse consequences. Barnabas had already shown him who was master of the house, and Willie had quickly realized the uselessness of trying to think things through. If he did that, if he even started to wonder about the hows and whys of Barnabas, or if he began to try and question the importance of Josette's room, all new and shining and waiting for its next occupant, he would go stark raving mad.

He buried his head in the pillow, letting the wool blanket slip, and breathed in the crisp air. Warmer now, his body had stopped most of its shaking and his shoulders lost their tightness. Sleep was coming soon now, he could feel it, that inky blackness layering itself in his mind, that blissfully unconscious state that he was so very grateful for these days.

The image of Maggie Evans popped into his head, all of a sudden. She was wearing her coffee shop garb, sensible shoes, and her brown hair all tucked up under that perky, white hat. And she had that look in her eye, that glinty appraisal of one and all that only came from living on the wrong side of town. A blue-collar girl, she was, and knowing that, Willie was struck almost into wakefulness. Why on earth would Barnabas Collins, who came from a long, long line of wealth and privilege, be interested in Maggie Evans?

**More Visitors**

Willie shuffled around the drawing room, loading the last of the new candles into the sconces and candle holders, and gathering the stubby bits from the night before in a box. A coal fire flickered in the fireplace, and, with the fire burning in addition to the candles, the room almost looked like it was lit by electricity. Barnabas insisted on candles though, wouldn't hear of electric lights or even kerosene lanterns in the main part of the house. Willie hadn't felt much like arguing with him about it, however, preferring to grumble to himself at the never-ending chore of the candles, which took at least an hour a day to deal with. It was getting close to sunset and this had to be done before Barnabas got up or there'd be hell to pay.

A sudden rap on the door brought Willie to attention, and a second rap caused him to pull away from the candle he was lighting, almost burning his hands. The rattling of the door sent him flying to hide behind the pillar in the archway. He heard the door open and small footsteps and someone came in. Then Victoria Winters passed through the archway and turned to see him there.

"Why are you here?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Why are you hiding?"

"I didn't know who it was," he replied to her astonished question.

"Who did you expect?"

"I don't know."

She questioned him like an affronted spinster whose card game has been interrupted, or like a governess whose charges have been woken too soon. She was definitely on guard, being alone in the Old House with a man who had been run out of town. And he was shocked to find that she was here to see Barnabas. It took him a second to adjust his own view of Barnabas with that of someone who young ladies would feel safe visiting at night.

"How did you meet him?" she wanted to know.

"I met him on the road. He had a flat tire and I changed it."

Pointed questions for which his answers were obviously unsatisfactory, if her expression of disdain was anything to go by. Ah, but he couldn't tell her the truth, now, could he. Couldn't tell anyone.

"But what are you doing here?" she asked, as if finally landing on the cornerstone question.

It threw him.

"I-I," he began, jaw working, barely able to get the word out. "I work for him."

"You work for him!" Her astonishment was plain.

"Yeah, he needed someone to fix the place up, you know, carpentry, plumbing. Place needs a lot of work."

"And he hired you."

He turned away then, the irony biting at him. "Yeah, he hired me."

And then there was her surprise that he didn't know exactly where Barnabas was. He gave her some lame excuse and was startled again when she mentioned the sunset. As quick as he could, he shuffled her out the door.

"You better get going," he said, flatly.

"I beg your pardon," she said, again the affronted spinster.

He held he door open, so there could be no question about what he meant. "Go now. I mean it." He closed the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief.

_There, I sent her on her way, safe._

Leaning against the closed doors, his forehead against one arm, he wondered how long he could keep this up. It had only been a number of weeks that he'd been at the Old House with Barnabas, and already it seemed like a lifetime. The work that he'd told Vicki about kept him busy, but always the sunset came to remind him of what his life was really about.

Suddenly he heard a voice behind him. Right behind him.

"Well, now."

He spun around startled, hair falling over one eye, and grabbed the door handle behind his back.

"You are a polite one, aren't you?"

Barnabas approached, walking slowly down the hall with a nasty expression that Willie couldn't quite read.

"You were in a terrible hurry to get her out of here, weren't you?"

Somehow it was a question for which he had no answer, and he tried to hold his ground as Barnabas stopped only inches away.

"What was the matter, Willie? Were you afraid for her?" A slow smile punctuated Barnabas' words. "Afraid something might happen to her?"

Willie held his ground with his feet, even though his body was falling away.

"How very considerate of you, Willie," said Barnabas, leaning closer. Barnabas' cold breath was chill on his face, even colder than the air in the house.

Willie had to back away at this point, back away because his feet wanted to run and it was all he could do. He backed up, slowly toward the kitchen where he hoped to make his escape.

"How very considerate." Of course, Barnabas didn't think it was considerate at all, Willie could tell that without even trying.

"You told me you wanted privacy and I was making sure you had that. You told me you wanted me to keep everyone away." Willie's voice broke on the last of this, and he backed up a little farther.

"I wanted you to keep everyone away, without exciting them to the fact that there was anything to keep away _from_." Barnabas advanced. In his eyes glittered The Thing, and Willie shivered all over.

"But I did what you asked me, Barnabas, I don't let anyone come near you, just like you said," Willie tried again, his back against the post.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Willie, I'm afraid you took it too far, and I'm afraid you don't seem to understand how a gentleman's manservant should behave toward houseguests."

"How can she be a houseguest when she wasn't even ever invited?" He couldn't stand the unfairness of it. "She just waltzed in here like she owned the place, and never mind that you live here now!"

"That's enough, Willie."

"But, Barnabas--"

"I said _enough_. If I ever see you or hear of you treating one of my houseguests in the manner I just witnessed, I shall flay you alive, is that understood?"

He didn't know what _flay_ meant, but the way Barnabas said it, it didn't sound like a good thing. "I understand Barnabas, but--"

"And to make sure that you understand, I'm going to teach you a lesson so that you don't forget what you understand."

"Wha-?"

Barnabas advanced toward him and grabbed him by one arm, the large hand gripping him hard above the elbow. The vampire dragged him into the kitchen, to where he had so recently wanted to escape, and shoved him toward the table.

"Give me your belt."

"What?"

"I said, give me your belt. Take your belt off and hand it to me." When Willie hesitated, he added, "Unless you want me to go and get my cane?"

He didn't like the feeling of Barnabas staring at him, waiting. And he liked even less the thought of Barnabas going to get his cane, which hung in the landing on the coat rack.

"What do you need it for?" he asked, stalling for time, although he thought he already knew the answer.

"I'm going to punish you so that you will learn to mind your manners with houseguests."

He couldn't do it. His hands were shaking so badly, and as he bent his head down to try and fumble with the buckle, Barnabas moved closer. He looked up.

"Please, Barnabas, please, don't--"

Barnabas arched one eyebrow and waited. "Don't make me do it for you."

He tried the buckle again, and managed to unhook it this time, but couldn't bring himself to do any more. He lifted his hands toward Barnabas. "I promise, I won't be rude to anyone, ever, anymore--"

He stopped. The Thing was glittering in Barnabas' eyes. He could feel it in his heart.

"Alright, wait, wait, don't--"

_Please don't kill me._

He pulled the belt from the loops around his waist and handed it to Barnabas. His whole arm was shaking as he did so, and he backed up as soon as Barnabas' fist closed around the leather.

There was a moment when he caught Barnabas' eyes with his own, and he was sure that the complete terror that he felt shooting adrenaline through him could be seen. He turned his head away till he could barely see the tips of the other man's shoes. Barnabas circled the back of his neck with one large hand and pushed him, face down over the kitchen table. The edge of it met him at his hips, and he collapsed across it, arms outstretched.

One last time, he had to try. "Please, Barnabas, I won't do it again, please--"

That large hand pushed against his back. "Be silent."

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the sigh of the candle that sat on the counter. Willie closed his eyes against the slow, golden light, and tried not to breath in the dust from the table. Almost 200 years of dust, straight into his lungs at that very moment. He hadn't gotten around to cleaning it yet, hadn't gotten--

The air whistled as the belt flew through it, cutting through the dust and the stillness. A second later and the only sensation he knew was pain. The belt landed in the small of his back, and then, quickly, in the same spot, over and over. He tried to arch away, tried to push up from the table, but Barnabas' large hand kept him pressed there. Willie could imagine the other hand, curled around his belt, and felt the leather, curving around his hips, almost slicing through the cloth of his pants as it bit into his skin. The sounds were building up in his throat as the beating went on, as the heat gathered on the surface of him, the pain layered the iciness inside of him, till he was yelping with the shock of the contrast.

Then all at once, the beating stopped. It was as if the world stood still too, as Barnabas laid the belt along side of his face on the tabletop.

_He isn't even breathing hard._

"Clean yourself up, Willie. Sam Evans will be here soon, to start on my portrait. In the morning, I want you to take him home, and I want you to be completely polite to him, is that understood?"

Willie couldn't move, could barely breath, couldn't even nod an acknowledgement for the lashes of pain that raced signals up to his brain. His eyes watered madly, and the back of his legs were on fire. And suffused with heat, his skin shimmered with it. Barnabas grabbed him by the shirt collar and hauled him upright.

He looked Willie straight in the eye. "Is that understood?"

Shaking, Willie nodded, trying to hold still, trying to get the words out that he knew Barnabas was waiting for. "Y-y-yes, I-I understand," he managed, watching Barnabas, hoping that this response would be acceptable.

Apparently it was, as Barnabas, without another word, turned on his heel and left the kitchen. Willie could hear the knock on the door, the conversation between Sam Evans and Barnabas, and the faint _goodbye, Pop_ offered by a female voice.

He didn't want to think about it. He wouldn't think about it. Barnabas and his plans were as far away as Willie could make them, and as he cupped the back of his head with both hands and closed his elbows around his face, it was very far indeed.

In the morning, when it was dawn, when Barnabas had "mysteriously" disappeared, Willie very politely informed Mr. Evans that he had to take him home. He was very careful with every word that he said, holding Sam's coat and hat, and waiting in the foyer. When Sam protested, he only said, "Please, Mr. Evans, I have to drive you home." He'd not thought to ask Barnabas what he should do if a guest refused to be polite and responsive in return, and for a moment was fearful that Sam would prove to be a problem. "Now, Mr. Evans." And Sam gave in, and Willie was able to drive him home.

**Cousin David**

Sleep had been almost nonexistent. His body kept him awake, growing stiffer by the minute, the creaking of the house in the wind kept him startled, and the thin glow of the candle, which he refused to blow out, kept him alert. And in addition to the fact that there was no way he could sleep lying on his front; the mattress felt especially lumpy, for some reason. So after he drove Sam Evans home, saw to the candles around Barnabas' coffin, and gave up on sleeping, he made some pathetic efforts to get rid of the peeling wallpaper that hung in the rooms and in the hallways. It was a job that required no brainpower, and very little muscle power, although he found that if he reached too hard, too high, or too quickly, his body protested with a thousand screams. The back of his legs and all the way up his back hurt like hell.

Hauling the pieces of wallpaper downstairs was also too difficult, so he allowed himself the liberty of making several piles of scraps to be removed at a later date. Barnabas was hardly likely to protest, since he was only concerned with certain parts of the house, namely Josette's room.

That was a room he didn't go into anymore unless he had to, since it gave him the creeps, being, as it was, redone to honor a dead woman. He supposed under normal circumstances he would have liked the room and been proud of the job he'd done on it. Barnabas had selected the colors from memory, and Willie had figured it out in his head from the way Barnabas described it. What had astonished him almost as much as Barnabas' praise was his own ability to do the work. And he really got into it, too, when Barnabas wasn't around.

His hands had gotten used to working with the plaster and nails, and the luxury fabrics and lace. And once the room was done, he was ready for more. But Barnabas' attention was elsewhere, and he didn't really seem to care about the rest of the house, even though the drawing room was sadly in need of more work, as was the entry way, and the kitchen, all the rooms upstairs, in short, everything else. And although Barnabas allowed him to do whatever work he thought necessary (like the kind required to keep the rain and weather out), he was not forthcoming with any more specific descriptions about how the rest of the house should look. It was very frustrating. Occasionally, there would be the passing remark about how the wood used to shine, or the fine texture of the imported wallpaper, or the southern ivy that Naomi could never get to grow, but nothing specific about colors and fabrics. So he contented himself with making the house workable, fixing furniture when he could, getting rid of objects so worn that their original intent was unrecognizable. And tried not to think.

He was upstairs finishing up the last of the wallpaper at the end of the day, and heard voices downstairs. Either someone had again let themselves in, or Barnabas was up and talking to yet another curious houseguest. As he reached the landing, he saw Barnabas and David in the sitting room. The little brat was hardly Willie's favorite, but the thought of him hanging around Barnabas made him edgy. Nervous. The two of them were rattling on about the painting of Barnabas, and the missing portrait of Josette, which Willie, after taking one look at Barnabas' face as he gazed at it, had taken to an experienced paint restorer in Bangor. There was no way on this planet, no, not in this lifetime, or even the next, that he was going to take on messing with the one and only replica of Josette. Luckily the painting had been protected from the weather and the paint restorer had said that it should finish up beautifully, which it had.

It was rather like watching a baby playing in a sandbox, knowing there was a poisonous snake in the grass nearby. Knowing that the baby's chatter and play would only arouse the snake, and the scent of young flesh would only encourage it to climb into the sandbox.

He fought the urge to throw himself on Barnabas and pound him into the ground, because as it was Barnabas not only outweighed him, but he also had an unnatural strength which could have taken three outraged Willies and never blinked an eye. And Barnabas seemed to have a fondness for David, with his curiosity and his adoration for the ghostly Josette. David wasn't in awe of Barnabas, wasn't scared of him at all, which Willie himself would have been had he been David's age, and this fact seemed to endear him to Barnabas. The fearless young cousin. It was like something out of a story, and Barnabas was uncommonly fond of his stories.

But standing between a snake and a baby was not something Willie was accustomed to. It was the right thing to do, and Willie had always done the wrong thing. Or perhaps it was that whatever he chose to do turned out to be the wrong thing. He wasn't sure which one it was, but the end result was that he wasn't very good at being the protector, or the hero. And because he wasn't, when he saw Barnabas and David together, he froze. Did he save David, or did he let Barnabas weave his weird, wicked spell and enchant David into believing that he was completely safe, as if in the arms of his mother?

He froze, his heart beating hard enough so that he could hear it in his ears, his stomach churning with the indecision. And then he saw Barnabas reach out a hand toward David.

And then he stepped between the snake and the baby.

In that second, the two figures turned toward him.

"Hello, Willie," said David, brightly, walking over to him.

He put his hand out to David's shoulder, stopping him, assuring himself that the boy was alright. "Hello, David," he said to the boy, keeping his eyes on Barnabas as he might an unpredictable animal.

"What are you doing here?"

Of course, being David, he would be instantly full of questions, and Willie answered him gruffly, "I work here."

"Did you know that Barnabas and I are cousins?"

It was not a relationship that Willie himself would have acknowledged, but it seemed to mean something to David, so Willie nodded, eyes still locked on Barnabas. "Yeah."

Then he clasped David's other shoulder, flicking his eyes to the child's face, allowing his attention to wander from Barnabas only for a second.

"It's gettin' kinda late," he said, gently. "You better go."

"Oh," said David, disappointment clear in his voice. "Okay."

"Goodbye, David," he said firmly, as if it all had been thoroughly discussed. He tried to push David toward the door a bit, but David didn't budge. Apparently, he had more to say.

"Goodbye," he said to Willie, his manners perfect. Then he turned to Barnabas. "Goodbye, Barnabas," he said, his affection plain.

"Careful in the dark now." Willie looked at David again, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Barnabas was walking toward them. "Can you get home alright?" His heart was pounding with trying to get the child safely out the door.

"Sure," replied David, allowing himself to be pushed toward the door. "Just as long as those dogs aren't out there anymore."

He snapped his head around to look at Barnabas, wondering at a man who would frighten a little kid like that.

"No, no," he reassured the child, pressing a hand in the small of his back, "they're not around now." He shoved David at the door, opened it, and with a last, "You'll be alright out there," pushed him out and closed the door behind him. Better out there than in the house with an unpredictable vampire.

"You worry too much," said Barnabas, almost in his face. He brought his cane forward with a sudden, threatening move, and Willie jumped back. "Much too much."

Then Barnabas grabbed his coat, opened the door, and leaned out, calling, "Wait, David, I'll walk with you."

Willie had been as polite as he could possibly be, given the recent injunction against rudeness, but the Thing was glittering in Barnabas' eyes just the same, as he grabbed his coat and prepared to sally off into the night after his young cousin.

With a chilling smile he turned to Willie and said, "Well, I can't let the child walk in the growing darkness, now, can I."

Willie knew when he was being mocked, but he tried not to display the flare of anger he felt at the position that Barnabas put him in. He had to protect Barnabas, always, the Thing made sure of that. But the people around Barnabas had no idea what a monster he was, and the younger and more innocent they were, the more they seemed to like being around him.

Barnabas returned from Collinwood just as Willie was finishing up the can of chili that he'd heated on the stove. He was sitting with his feet on the table, back to the wall, trying to imagine that he had a beer to go with it, when the door from the hallway shot open, and Barnabas stepped through. Instantly he knew trouble was up. The look on the vampire's face was like thunder, and he held his cane gripped tightly in one hand.

"What's the matter, Barnabas?" He, too, got to his feet and surreptitiously wiped the dirt from his shoes off the table. Barnabas was at his side in a second, less than that, grabbing his throat and forcing him against the wall. And that hand was cold on his throat, cold and icy and dead. Yet the fire in those eyes spoke of a hell that never burned out and that could incinerate him alive.

He couldn't get out the words to ask again what he had done to make Barnabas so angry, but he gasped and struggled against that hand, wincing as his head met with a healthy thunk against the wall.

"I've just come from talking to my cousin Elizabeth," said Barnabas.

Willie swallowed, eyes wide, trying to remember what, if anything, he'd ever done to Mrs. Stoddard. At least recently.

"She has indicated to me that you've been nothing but trouble. She spoke of your checkered past and I had to lie and say that I knew all about it. And then she asked me to get rid of you." The vampire's voice displayed his irritation.

Willie blinked a few times, knowing that this was the truth, knowing that he and Jason had turned Collinwood on its side, if not completely upside-down, during their stay there.

"I've managed to convince her that you are entirely necessary to me, and that because you and I have an understanding she'll have no more trouble from you."

He jerked his chin up and down in agreement, wheezing as he tried to pull more air into his lungs.

"When I let go of you, I want you to tell me everything about yourself, and if I find out that you are lying, and believe me I shall find out, I shall kill you. I should kill you right now for upsetting my cousin like that, but you are useful to have around, and so for the moment, I shall let you live. Now speak."

With a jerk, Barnabas released him, and Willie collapsed to the floor, holding his throat and trying to teach himself how to breathe.

"I said _speak_!"

Willie looked up to see the cane raised over his head. He held his hand out to deflect the expected blow. "B-barnabas, wait--" He coughed the next breath and the next, his chest heaving with each gasp. A hand reached down and hauled him into the nearest chair, bruising him to the bone as it did so.

Barnabas took off his coat and laid it along the back of the chair opposite him and sat down, placing the cane on the table. His face held an expectant expression, and he folded his hands in front of him.

"I'm waiting."

Willie nodded, massaging his throat. And began to speak. He talked of his home in Kentucky and of the high school in Brooklyn he'd left without the piece of paper that came with it, and of the road which lured him early on, that he followed and kept following because the road had no end and because trouble had seemed his constant companion. He spoke of ships he'd stowed away on, and card games won and lost, and ships he'd jumped and of the petty thievery that had met him up with Jason. Of Jason, he said little, because there wasn't much to tell that Barnabas would be interested in. He made it sound like all the great plans had been Jason's and that his part was to fence the stolen goods, which was all true, and how they'd ended up in Hong Kong together, and he'd taken up smoking Turkish cigarettes. Of the upper New York prison sentence he mentioned the short time he'd served because of overcrowding and how Jason had looked out for him, mostly. Of their visit to Collinwood, he told only what he knew, that Jason had had his own agenda about visiting his old pal Liz, and that they'd had a falling out because Willie had, he suspected, been prospecting on his own.

"And then I met you."

Of course, _met_ wasn't exactly the word he would normally use. _Unearthed_ would be more appropriate. He'd stumbled across Barnabas looking for something entirely more pleasant. He was still rubbing his throat as he finished; it wasn't a long story, after all. He suspected that Barnabas knew that he'd been looking for buried treasure in the form of family jewels, and surely Barnabas wouldn't begrudge him that, since it was his treasure hunt that had freed the vampire?

"And that's everything?"

"Everything that matters," he replied, feeling the bitterness on his tongue.

"I expect that there is more that you have forgotten, but I trust that if you suddenly remember that you've been involved in anything devious that you'll be forthcoming."

"Yeah, as if your hands were perfectly clean." The words escaped him suddenly, of their own volition as they had a way of sometimes doing.

The Thing leaped to life in Barnabas' eyes.

"And what, exactly, do you mean by that?" The voice was as cold as oil.

Of course, they both knew that Willie meant the girls around town that had been attacked, of the livestock that Willie had killed for Barnabas, and of the ugly plans the vampire had for one, Maggie Evans.

"Nothin', I didn't mean nothin'."

_Please don't look at me like that, like I'm next on your list._

"I didn't mean anything, Barnabas, honest." He made his voice as sincere as he could, spreading his hands toward Barnabas, palms out.

Barnabas rose from his chair, cane in one hand, the other flat on the table. "Your life hangs by a thread at this moment, Willie, and your peculiar brand of honesty shortens that thread." He thumped Willie in the chest with the curved, silver head of his cane. He waited.

Willie rubbed the spot on his chest with both hands, not looking directly at Barnabas, but keeping his eyes on the table top where the cane now rested. "I just meant that both of us done things that we ain't exactly proud of, things we felt we needed to do, had to do to survive. I mean, I held up a liquor store once, I forgot to tell you that didn't I, and, well, I'm not proud of that, I wrecked up his place pretty bad, but I needed the money, and Jason, he--"

A loud thud shattered his voice into silence, as Barnabas hit the table with his cane, hard.

"That's enough."

Willie watched as the vampire walked across the room, cane in hand, to stand in front of the sink to stare out the window. There wasn't anything to see, in the dark, but Willie didn't think he was actually looking at anything. His back was to Willie, the shoulders straight, the bearing of his head rigid.

"I'm doing what I have to to survive, and no, I'm not proud of it. But this is my existence, and I will survive, no matter what. Can you understand that?"

An answer was required of him, he knew that, but he was distracted by the fact that Barnabas' face wasn't reflected in the window. By the light shining on it, part of the wall opposite the window was reflected, and even the large water stain there, but Barnabas wasn't. He didn't even seem to be aware of the fact, but Willie couldn't take his eyes off it.

Barnabas turned. "Well, can you?"

It seemed a perfectly reasonable question, said in an ordinary, everyday tone of voice. 

"Yeah," said Willie, finally. "Yeah, I guess so."

The temper was gone now, the Thing quiet and still. Barnabas left the kitchen, leaving Willie to his now cold saucepan of chili.

**Jason's First Visit**

When the knock came at the door, Willie had just finished unloading the last of the groceries and supplies from the car into the kitchen. Without thinking, he went up front and opened the door. Jason. But he didn't feel the same pleasure at seeing his friend's face as he used to. Perhaps it was his own memory of being kicked out of Collinwood, or perhaps it was the sarcastic expression he saw there.

"Well, now," said Jason, tauntingly, "is the lady of the house in?"

"Jason," said Willie, by way of reply.

"May I come in?"

"I don't--" he tried, but Jason shoved his way in, past Willie's resistance, and his desire to shield Jason from everything that had happened to him. He pressed the back of his hand against Willie's stomach and pushed him aside.

His pointed remarks about Willie's being the lady of the house and Willie's lack of hospitality were only meant to aggravate him and so he ignored them. He'd known that Jason would be over, sooner or later, poking his nose in and now he was and it was just as bad as Willie'd feared.

"Don't play games with me, Jason," he pleaded.

"Alright, no games," said Jason, the placating smile disappearing. Strong hands gripped his shirt collar, Jason's imposing face only inches from his own. Jason wanted answers and he wanted them now.

"Now, I want to know just exactly what you're up to." 

"I'm just working here, honest."

"Now this is Jason McGuire you're talking to, Willie. You gave up work a few years ago. Swore you'd never work again." He laughed as he said this, his voice becoming a snarl. "And suddenly I find you in a dump like this doing a pile of piddly little jobs."

"Now, I'm just trying to find another way to live." Willie found his voice rising in response.

"I don't believe it," growled Jason.

"Well, you got to!"

"I only believe what's proven, Willie." Jason tried another tact. "Now, Willie, you like money. And suddenly, I find you here, working for a guy who's loaded with it." He loosened his grip on Willie's jacket only long enough to get a firmer one. "Now I want to know what you're up to! I want to know everything."

Out of the corner of Willie's eye, Barnabas appeared. One moment there was just shadows from the candles and the next moment, there he stood, immaculate and still in the doorway. Willie froze.

"I'll tell you exactly what he's doing," said Barnabas.

Shocked, Jason let him go, and turned to Barnabas, a smile instantly painting itself on his face.

"Did I startle you?" Barnabas asked.

"Ah, well, I'm not the startling kind, but I was well on my way to it there." The smile broadened as he turned his back to Willie. For a second, Jason's broad shoulders blocked out his view of Barnabas, and he felt that he might be alone in the room with Jason. Almost like Barnabas never existed. But then Jason shifted his weight, and Barnabas reappeared. Willie bent his head, and kept it there, trying to feel inconspicuous.

Barnabas had seen Jason pushing him around and getting away with it. He felt the flush of red across his cheeks, feeling singularly grateful for the dark corners of the room. But he knew it wasn't something Barnabas would forget in a hurry, nor Jason. Jason didn't like being caught out like that, showing his true colors, and he had been. Willie's two worlds had collided. There'd be hell to pay later for that, and Willie knew he was the one on account.

"I didn't hear you come in, you know," Jason said to Barnabas, more a question than a statement.

"You hear that, Willie? That's a compliment to the excellent job you did on those squeaky floorboards." Barnabas was all cordial smiles and welcome.

_Excellent job?_

Jason turned to look at him then, eyebrows lowering dubiously. Of course Jason would be surprised, he'd never heard anyone compliment Willie before, and, for that matter, neither had Willie.

"Yes," continued Jason, turning back to look at Barnabas, his expression still puzzled though he tried to hide it behind friendly solicitude. "I was a wee bit concerned about my friend here. Wondering what he might be up to." He folded his hands behind his back.

"I can account for all of his activities, if you'd like," replied Barnabas, brow wrinkled with mock civility.

"Yes, I'd like that very much, please."

Instead of replying, Barnabas turned his attention to Willie. "Willie," he said, "I think it's time for you to do that job that you have to do." He made it sound like there was some very important errand that Willie had to run for him, instead of picking up more candles at the hardware store.

"Yeah, it's time," he replied, going along with it. Knowing that if he did not, there would be another account in hell.

At this, Jason craned his head around to look at Willie, as if to reassure himself that it was actually Willie that Barnabas was talking to, and not just some imposter who obeyed orders as Willie never would.

As quick as he could, Willie eased his way around the two men, keeping his head down, knowing that this weakness would not soon be forgotten by Jason. He was embarrassed beyond measure. 

It was one of those conversations that confused Willie, with people saying one thing and meaning another. Jason of course, wouldn't want to think that he wasn't the only one who controlled Willie, and he seemed to have no reverence or fear of Barnabas at all. Barnabas in his turn seemed to be completely unaffected or worried by the infamous Jason McGuire. He seemed to consider the man a complete joke, and saw right through his manners and charm. Willie was very glad to be well out of earshot when they discussed him further.

**The Phone Call**

Being a messenger boy was even more irritating than being an errand runner, though he would never tell Barnabas this. Putting a phone in at the Old House would have taken care of at least half of his trips into town. But of course, Barnabas wouldn't hear of it, wouldn't even consider defacing the honor of the Old House with some new-fangled, irritating contraption, even one as unobtrusive as a simple black phone. The last time Willie had brought the matter up, after getting his fill of waiting on the front porch while Sam Evans went inside to talk to his daughter, Barnabas had looked ready to smack him. On top of which, the vampire seemed quite on edge recently, pacing the halls of the Old House and staring out the front windows. So he decided not to bring the issue of the phone up again when Barnabas instructed him to run down to the Evans' cottage to tell Sam Evans that he would be unavailable for a sitting that evening.

"It's just a stupid phone," he muttered to himself as he pulled up in the Evans' driveway.

At the Evans' cottage, there was only Vicki there. She was entirely alone, and by the look on her face, surprised to see him. The second she told him that Maggie Evans was missing, Willie knew where she was likely to be and what had probably happened to her. He should never have come to the Evans' cottage, and left Barnabas alone.

Building up inside of him was the urge to tell her what was going on. It was a very dangerous urge, one that would get him, and very possibly Maggie, killed on the spot. He opened his mouth to tell her, the very words were on his tongue and he couldn't say them.

"What is it?" she asked, apparently becoming concerned at his expression.

And then he knew he couldn't tell her. Not one single word. Something killed the desire inside of him, like a frost blight sweeping over a field.

"Nothin'," he said instead. "You just tell Mr. Evans I was here," he told her, and ran off to his car.

At the first gas station he passed, he pulled over, and flung open the door of the phone booth before he could think about what he was going to do. He pumped his nickel into the slot and dialed the number as fast as he could. His hands were shaking. His whole body shook, and then he realized that she could probably recognize his voice. At the last second, he slapped a handkerchief over the receiver.

"Hello?" he heard.

"Find Maggie Evans. She's in danger." He hoped his voice sounded gruff and low.

"Who is this?"

Stupid question. Didn't she know he was trying to help her?

"Go after Maggie Evans right now. I can tell you where to find her."

"Who is this?" pleaded Vicki.

"Now just listen to me," he snarled, wondering why people always asked such stupid questions, "if you want to save your friend." He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and waited.

"I'm listening," said Victoria, obediently.

"Go to the graveyard, that's where you'll find her."

"What graveyard?"

What did she mean, what graveyard? But then he realized that to her the answer to that question wasn't as obvious as it was to him. "The graveyard on Eagle Hill. Go there if you want to save her. Go right now!"

"Please, how do you know this--" she started to ask, but he hung up the phone before she could finish. There was no way they could trace the call to him, he was sure. But as he stood there, his hand on the receiver, he began to realize what he'd done.

Barnabas was easy to find at the graveyard, and it was almost as easy to convince him to leave the girl behind, especially when the voice of Sam Evans was heard on the winds of the night. As he hurried Barnabas away, he knew Maggie was safe, at least for the moment. He wasn't really sure why he'd done it, was even less sure as he and Barnabas hid in the secret room, breathing the cold, still air. The darkness of the room fell around him with an insidious familiarity. His body remembered being locked in, even if his mind preferred to forget, and as he struggled with it, he shivered with reaction. Maggie meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him, and didn't care about him. So why save her? Why had he done it?

He didn't know.

He knew even less as Barnabas turned toward him. 

"And you have some explaining to do. How did he know where to find the girl?"

With his back to Barnabas, it was easy to lie, and he smiled. "I told you, Barnabas, I don't know."

"But you did know he was coming here, didn't you?"

He nodded, swallowing, grateful that Barnabas had given him the opening for a partial truth. "Yeah."

"How?"

"W-well, I-I told you, I overheard them talking."

"Where did that happen?"

The questions were getting more particular now, it was time to make the lie even more believable. He turned to face Barnabas, making his expression as earnest and as open as he could. "Well, I-I went to the Evans' cottage to give Mr. Evans your message. And they was talking about going to the graveyard, _that's_ how I knew."

"No one would have known to come to the graveyard, Willie, no one told them. Except you." The vampire's face grew grim and dark. 

The lie wasn't working. 

"No, no, I didn't tell them, Barnabas, honest!"

"You are a bad liar, Willie, you told them."

"No, Barnabas, I wouldn't do that."

"You must have told them."

Panic washed over him in icy, numbing waves. The lie wasn't working, and he couldn't tell if it was because Barnabas didn't believe him, or if it was because Barnabas didn't care. And that was the scariest part of all, that even if he were telling the truth, it wouldn't have mattered.

"You must have betrayed me."

"No, I--"

"Ah, you shouldn't have done that, Willie. That means I'm going to have to punish you."

"But I didn't do anything!" His voice cracked in amazement.

"I must teach you your lesson, Willie. You'll never betray me again!"

Barnabas knocked him to the floor with one arm and raised his cane. Willie was screaming before he felt the first blow.

***

Long strings of dull, cotton wool stabbed through with spears of lightning. His whole body felt that way, and the side of his head was sharply throbbing in slow, even beats. He realized he was awake in the secret tomb, wedged between the base of the coffin and the floor. Wedged so far in as to disappear in the cold, damp crack there, but of course that could never happen. Unsure as to why Barnabas hadn't simply killed him outright, he moved his shoulder to lift his head, and felt the waves of whiteheat pain thundering over him. He hardly felt the cold at all, or the damp of the tomb.

Barnabas was there. Without even opening his eyes it was as if he could feel him pressing down, surrounding his entire body with the Thing.

"Get up, Willie," said Barnabas in a tone that implied he would brook no disobedience. "You must move your car before it is discovered in the morning. They are sure to come back here to search for evidence that will help them with Miss Evans' disappearance, and your car is the last thing that I want them to see."

Movement was impossible, he knew that. But he had to try, otherwise Barnabas would start all over, and this time not stop. He opened his eyes, narrow against the pain, and saw Barnabas standing there, in front of the door, still gripping his cane by the wrong end. Something had darkened the silver handle, and he closed his eyes again. He knew that if it hadn't been for the car needing to be moved, Barnabas would have left him where he lay, left him in the tomb, and sealed it shut.

"I said get up!"

Patience gone, Barnabas opened the door to the tomb and reached down to haul Willie to his feet. Yanked to his toes, white lightning lanced through his eyes and out the top of his head. The yelp escaped him, and as soon as it did, Barnabas swung him around to hit hard against the wall.

"I-I'm ssss--"

"Be quiet! hissed Barnabas, and Willie opened his eyes enough to catch a glimpse of the red-lined eyes, and the face haggard with fatigue. The vampire hadn't fed yet that evening, Willie knew, and he must sorely be tempted by the smell of blood all around him. Willie himself could smell it, salt and copper, mixed with the dirt of the floor. Huddled against the wall, held up only by the strength of his jacket and the force of Barnabas' hand, he couldn't understand why Barnabas wasn't lunging at him, baring those fangs, and taking what he wanted.

"Listen to me, Willie," the voice was saying from that mouth now, that mouth that Willie couldn't keep his eyes from, "We need to get to your car and you need to drive us to the Old House. Do you understand?"

Of course he understood. Car, drive, Old House. Fairly straightforward, even for someone without a high school education. No car, no drive, police, discovery, death.

He nodded slowly, very slowly and carefully. Keys. Pocket. He reached down, unconsciously pushing Barnabas' hand out of the way, too dazed to be surprised that Barnabas let him. And then wished he hadn't as he began to rock forward without the support. Barnabas grabbed at him again, just as he fished the keys out of his pocket.

Somehow, he managed to walk out to the car that he'd parked at the side entrance to the cemetery. He walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the fact that Barnabas had to close the door to the secret tomb himself, and ignoring the fact that something was oozing down the side of his face and into his left eye like a waterfall. A slow waterfall, somewhat warm and thick, but a waterfall.

At the car, he let himself in, and let Barnabas open his own door. He started the ignition, and swung his head around to look at the vampire.

"Drive, Willie! Drive us home!" This accentuated by several thuds of the silver-headed cane.

That alone was enough to make Willie snap to attention, and he squealed the tires on the tarmac and sped down the road. If he was weaving a bit like a drunken man, well, there was no one to notice at that hour. Driving with only one eye made it difficult to see the lines in the road. And if he ground the gears on the column every time, Barnabas didn't notice or care. He'd never been in cars enough to know when one was being badly driven. Willie heard humming as he drove up the lane to the Old House, and then realized it was his own voice. Only, he wasn't humming. He was whimpering. Black spots were collecting at the edges of his eyes, black spots and purple spots, and somewhere, in the great beyond, a huge white shroud was coming for him.

"Open my door."

That was the voice of Barnabas. Ordering him to open the door as if he had no arms of his own. Something to do with being accustomed to being waited on. Willie got out and staggered around the front of the car. He pulled on the handle, and waited as Barnabas got out. Barnabas walked toward the house, his large, dark back to Willie, the cane in one hand, all of it outlined by the candles still burning in the windows.

"Come along, Willie."

_Come and pay your account in hell._

One foot stepped out into thin air, and he felt the gravel bite into his face. Only he didn't feel it really, just the cold sting of a slight rain, and the wind as it whipped across his skin. There was no pain anymore, only the dull thud of his heart, and the roaring of the sea in his ears. The white shroud was coming.

He saw Barnabas' legs pause and turn, the heel of the cane spitting up gravel. Then the legs approached him.

_Don't kill me, please don't kill me, he's going to kill me._

Barnabas' face near his own, the Thing gone elsewhere for the time being. A hand reaching out. No cane.

He was swooped up into arms that could have held back the tides of the moon, and carried into the house as if he weighed no more than a feather. His head against the rough caped lapel of Barnabas' Inverness coat. Hands around his shoulders, beneath his knees. The house. The door. The roaring darkness.

When he awoke again, he was in his bedroom lying on his bed. The candle had been lit, by Barnabas he supposed, but he was alone. He was propped up a bit on his pillow, and he looked down to catch sight of his own shirt, soaked through with something fast drying to brown. He put his hand to his head, and it came away red. Really hurt, he was really hurt this time, and he was bleeding to death, with no one around to care. The pounding in his head was enormous, like a hollow drum and someone in there was banging against the inside of his skull. A tongue to his dry lips told him that it had split open, and he realized at that point he didn't really want to know what else was wrong with him. Stomach churning with the thought of Barnabas coming at him again with the cane made him prop himself up even further, but he could barely move. He'd pulled muscles in his legs trying to get away, and the backs of his arms felt like pulverized ladders. Every other muscle hurt, and even the ones that didn't, did. And his nose was bleeding, on top of everything else.

**Jason's Second Visit**

The morning, which came for Willie about noon, brought clouds chasing each other over the horizon and aches to every part of his body. The first thing his eyes saw were the clothes hanging over the foot of the bed. And that his blood-stained shirt had been removed from his body, and when he reached up to his face, that all of the blood had been cleaned away. The side of his face hurt like hell, but it felt clean and dry, and though there was a huge, long bruise there, the torn flesh seemed to be healing.

It didn't help his headache any, nor the throbbing of his busted lip, or the soreness that zinged up and down the back of his body. He had to get up, but could barely move. He managed it by pushing off the mattress with both hands and grabbing onto the edge of the nightstand. And he would have sold his soul at that moment for some aspirin. There was none in the house, though, and he could hardly head on into town looking like this. Best to lie low, then, until he no longer looked like a man who'd been dragged through the mill. Backwards.

The clothes on the bed were new. Brand new. The pants were sturdy and well made, and the vest, he suspected, had come from the same shop where Barnabas had ordered his own clothes. The shirt was thick cotton, and soft beneath Willie's fingertips. His eyebrows lowered in confusion. An apology? He couldn't imagine such a thing, not from Barnabas. A gesture, maybe, not quite an apology, for probably in Barnabas' mind Willie had truly gotten what he'd deserved. Maybe more of an acknowledgement then.

He put the clothes on, and stored the ones he had been wearing in his dresser. Then went downstairs and out back to get the milk from the ice house for his breakfast, smelling the rain in the air and seeing the storm clouds gathering. Having them gather at this time of day could only mean that there was a huge storm coming. Not that it would bother them; with boxes of candles and the fireplaces, the house was prepared. But there were windows on the second floor that still needed repairs in one way or another, and if he were to keep the coming rain out, he needed to get up there as soon as possible. Grabbing the pint of milk from the shallow, stone well, he peeled off the foil and gulped the whole thing down.

***

Downstairs there was a pounding at the door. He waited, hands on the board he was sawing through, for the person to go away, thinking that he might have mistaken the sound of thunder for something else. The pounding came again, and then stopped. Then he heard the door open. Somehow, on the Collinwood estate, a closed door to a private home meant nothing. He knew he'd better go and see who it was, otherwise Barnabas would be furious. And after yesterday's fiasco in the graveyard, Willie was inclined to try and avoid that.

He slipped down the stairs, almost on tiptoe, until he was surprised to see Jason McGuire standing there in the entry way to the drawing room, wearing his long raincoat. As he hadn't lit the candles yet, the house was mostly dark, in spite of the lightning flashing through the windows at regular intervals. Jason was looking around, looking for something.

"What do you want," asked Willie, coming up behind him.

As Jason turned around and came toward him in the hallway, Willie turned his head sideways, into the shadows, to hide the bruises on his face.

"There you are," said Jason, satisfied. "Didn't you hear my banging?"

Jason came closer, and as he did, Willie backed up against the pillar in the hallway and kept his back to it as Jason came into the foyer.

"W-well, I was upstairs," he began to explain, and then decided to attack. "What do you want?"

Jason was nearer now, and Willie had to turn almost all the way around, keeping the bruised side of his face to the wall. He wasn't sure why he was hiding it from Jason, maybe to protect Barnabas, or maybe just to keep Jason from knowing.

"Answers," growled Jason, "answers."

_Oh, this again_. Willie was heartily sick of it before it began. "Answers to what?"

"To some very specific questions."

"I don't have any answers," Willie said, head down, "not to anything." And he truly didn't, because if he did, he'd be far away from the Old House and Collinwood.

"Ah?" asked Jason. It was more like a grunt, and his face was very close, eyes bright, examining him. "I'm afraid that you do, Willie. And you're going to tell them to me."

Suddenly Jason's hands were on his upper arms, and Jason jerked him around, whipping his head to one side. Willie could no longer hide the bruises on his face. He knew they looked ghastly and purple, and that his face was shining with fever.

"Willie! What happened to you? Your face?"

Willie jerked himself out of Jason's grasp, and Jason was surprised enough to let him go. He turned his head away, back into the shadows. And waited, shaking.

"I fell," he said.

"You fell?" Obviously Jason wasn't having any of it, and, reaching for him, pulled at the neck of his t-shirt. "Willie, these bruises look like they go all the way down; you don't get that from falling. You've been in a fight," asserted Jason, using his other hand to push Willie's head to one side, "that or someone's given you a beating."

It was too much, suddenly, too much to have Jason know anything about Barnabas and his cane and the skill with which he used it. Willie shoved Jason's hands away roughly, feeling the angry, hot pull of muscles along the backs of his arms as he did so. "Will you leave me alone?" he snapped. "I told you I fell, and your askin' me again and again ain't going to make it any different."

"Alright," said Jason, ever the caring friend, "I'm not going to concern myself with what happened to you. I just want you to tell me all that you know."

"Why should I?" he asked, sullenly. His head hurt like hell, and all he wanted to do was lie down. His chest rose and fell with each jerky breath he took.

"'Cause there's too many coincidences, Willie. Eagle Hill cemetery was the cemetery you went to, wasn't it? And that's the cemetery where they found that girl."

To Jason the connection was obvious, and to Willie it was, too. If that were so, then it must be obvious to the wide world in general. He wondered how long it would take before the sheriff was also pounding at the door of the Old House.

"When I was there was a long time ago." And it was a long time ago that he'd been there. A lifetime ago.

"And I'm supposed to assume that you've never been there since?" Jason's voice was sly. "Well, I assume exactly the opposite."

"Now, what would I want there?" protested Willie. Still not looking at his friend, still keeping his eyes on the floor. It was easier to lie if he didn't have to look Jason in the face.

"I don't know," Jason said, pondering this. "At first I was certain you were after those jewels, buried with members of the Collin's family. Now, I don't know. But I intend to find out, Willie."

Of course he would find out. In his Jason way, he would hold on to the facts he was certain of, like a terrier with a rat, and never let go.

"Now, I had nothing to do with that girl being there," said Willie, his nerves fraying like a rope that has carried far too much weight for far too long. "Now, please leave me alone." He started up the stairs, and Jason grabbed his arm, jerking him to a stop.

"Allow me to mention one more coincidence."

"It had nothing to do with me!" Now his voice was starting to crack and he swallowed against it.

"Oh, no?"

With one quick movement, Jason ripped open his shirt sleeve, revealing Willie's bare wrist.

"What are you doing?" Voice cracking in spit of his best efforts, he pulled against Jason's grasp. Jason was well on his way to making the connection, and Willie was terrified. If he actually figured it out, even if he only stumbled on the truth, Barnabas would never forgive him. In fact, Barnabas would blame him, and the punishment would fit the crime.

"Those wounds on your arm."

"What about them?" asked Willie, stalling.

"You got them the night you went to that cemetery, Willie."

"Now what's that got to do with anything?" He pulled his arm out of Jason's grip, finally, and flattened his palm against his side, keeping it out of reach should Jason change his mind and reach for it again.

"Well, according to Vicki, when they found the girl, she had marks, wounds, punctures on her neck." Jason's chin was jutted out, as if by his very forcefulness he could get Willie to confess.

"Well, you don't think that I had anything--" Jason, and the sheriff, would naturally think that it was _he_ who had done these horrible things to Maggie Evans. That was the worst part, almost, that the real monster was completely camouflaged.

"I don't know," said Jason, shaking a long, hard finger in his face, "but I'm positive that you know something about the entire matter."

"Well, you said yourself it was all a coincidence."

"Nonsense. The similarities are much too close to be explained away by coincidence, Willie."

"There is no other explanation," Willie stated firmly. "I wouldn't hurt that girl, not for anything, I'd even--" he stopped to look up the stairway. Barnabas had a way of hanging about, and appearing when least expected. He headed down the stairs, seeing out of the corner of his eyes that Jason too, was looking up toward the darkness at the top of the stairs, focusing there as if hoping to see something that would solve the mystery for him. Going toward the drawing room was the only thing he could come up with to distract Jason from actually going up there.

"You'd even what, Willie?"

"Nothin'." He pressed a hand to his chest to stop it from hurting, rubbing the heel of his palm against his breastbone.

"You'd even protect her. Isn't that what you were going to say?"

"Now, I don't even know her, she means nothing to me."

"Ah?" Jason changed his tact once again. "Vicki mentioned a phone call, telling her where Maggie was. And that she was in some kind of danger."

The other man paused to let this sink in.

"Now, you wouldn't be, by any chance, the man who made that phone call, would you?"

"Now, why would I, when this all means nothing to me?" He turned to look at Jason, and couldn't quite manage to meet his eyes.

"Well, I never suspected you of having a conscience, Willie, but you've been behaving so strangely lately, anything is possible."

"I didn't make any phone call and I don't know what you're talking about," he replied stubbornly, turning away.

Jason grabbed him by both arms, fingers digging into the muscles. "Now, Willie, you listen to me, and listen carefully." His voice was quite low, almost drowned out by the thunder, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

"Now, I have things to do," Willie replied, pulling away, knowing that it really wouldn't do any good.

It didn't. Jason had him, again by the arms, a vice grip this time. "Now the first thing you're going to do is listen to me."

"Now, I'm letting you stay on here," Jason began, his face all edges and angles in his anger, "because you seem to be reformed somewhat. And Mr. Collins is kind enough to give you some work. But if you're up to something," here he let go long enough to raise his hand to Willie's face, the finger stabbing the air, each jab marked by thunder, "if you're involved in something that'll bring the authorities swarming all over Collinwood, then I want it stopped. And immediately! I'll not go allowing my plans to be jeopardized by you. Or anyone else. Is that clear?"

"I have things I have to do," said Willie by way of reply, pulling away.

Jason wouldn't let him go, grabbed him again, insistent. "I said is that clear?"

"It's dark," Willie said, realizing it for the first time. "It's almost time for me to light the candles."

"I want an answer," shouted Jason, shaking him.

An ire rose in him, unlike any he'd ever felt for Jason, so mad he could spit, and knowing there was almost no way he was going to get rid of Jason without making things ugly. "Well maybe you should just forget your questions!"

"I have no intentions of forgetting them, Willie," said Jason back at him, voice lowering in an ominous way.

Willie shook him off, busting through the grip with a sudden upwards movement. "That might not be the wise thing to do."

The thunder was very loud in that next minute, and if it had not been for that the room would have been filled with silence. Willie could feel Jason's eyes on him as he turned toward the large candelabra and pulled a box of matches from his pocket. Hoping to concentrate on the task at hand hard enough to forget Jason was even there, he failed miserably. Jason was there, staring at him, his eyes boring through the back of Willie's head as if they were diamond studded drills.

"Are you threatening me, Willie?" asked Jason, his voice almost too quiet to hear over the thunder.

"No," said Willie. In that moment, he knew the friendship was over, and the tattered remnants of what had been a glorious partnership were scattered to dust. Even if they hadn't parted the best of friends when Jason had escorted Willie to the door of Collinwood, they hadn't been enemies then. They were now. Willie was on the opposite side from Jason, as of that moment.

"Well, that's certainly what it sounded like to me," came the smooth reply, in tones reserved for only the most despised of opponents.

"Oh?" asked Willie, struggling to keep his voice casual. "Well to me, it sounded like a warning."

Jason circled around to his side, ignoring the fact that Willie was pretending to be quite busy lighting candles. His eyes were on Willie's face, Willie could feel them there, and knew Jason was watching. Like he did when moving in on the last bit of a well-oiled plan. Watching and waiting for the best moment to sink his teeth in and take what he wanted.

"Well threat or warning, I don't need either from you," he said.

"Alright," said Willie, surprised to hear the small laughter in his own voice. If it was over, it was over, and a strange lightness overcame him. "Well at the moment," he continued, enjoying the feel of the words, "it's all I have to give. And now, you'll have to excuse me. Mr. Collins doesn't like my entertaining guests."

Jason nodded, as if approving of Willie's gallant attempt to fend him off. "You know what happened to that girl," he said, his voice soft, "don't you, Willie." 

"I know it's dark," he replied, feeling his breath building in his throat and his heart start to beat faster. It was dark, and the possibility of Barnabas walking in on this conversation was quite good. And that was bad. The lightheaded feeling shrank away instantly.

"Tell me one thing," said Jason, his voice taking on that conspiratorial tone he liked to use when he wanted to make the person he was talking to feel as if they were the most intimate of companions, "between the two of us. I found one thing I can't quite understand. Did you make that phone call?"

There it was, the question itself. If Jason had used that tone of voice, with that unctuous quality, only five minutes earlier, Willie would have been sorely tempted to tell him, for old time's sake. But now, he couldn't, even if he wanted to.

"That's not like you, Willie," Jason continued, in almost a whisper. "Were you the one, Willie, huh?"

Willie felt his eyes narrow and his head tip back as a sudden exhaustion crept over him.

"Tell me, were you?"

He had to do something to throw Jason off, Jason who knew him almost better than he knew himself.

"Now you know me better than that, don't you?" He smiled at the candles, as if Jason and his interrogation were no more bothersome than a fly.

He heard Jason's small laugh. "I thought so, but now I'm not quite so sure, Willie. I might have to get to know you all over again."

The smile left him as it came, and he kept his eyes on the candle flame in front of him.

"Because I'm going to find out what you're up to. Oh, I'm going to find out, Willie, I promise you."

And at last, Jason moved away, looking at something else now, eyes roaming around the room. Willie turned to look at him then.

"Fortunately you're not a man who keeps his promises," he said, catching Jason's gaze with his. "Fortunately for you, that is."

**The Phone Call Again (or, Barnabas Finds out About the Phone Call from Too Many Sources)**

He'd returned to his sawing, letting the feel of the wood taking shape beneath his hands soothe him, even though it was hard to be soothed with the thunder rattling the floorboards, and the sound of Jason's voice still echoing in his ears. And then he felt the whoosh of air that signaled the front door being opened. In mid-motion, he let the saw rest against the wood and waited, hoping that it had been the wind that had worked its way under the doorknob and not something, or someone, else.

"Willie?" he heard, faint and faraway.

Barnabas then, and not the wind.

"Willie!" he heard again, this time stronger.

The handle of the saw slipped out of his suddenly damp palm.

"Willie!" The roar rang to the rooftops.

His heart ceased to pump blood and began moving liquid ice through his veins. Dropping the saw, he moved toward the top of the stairs and stumbled down them, seeing the edge of Barnabas' coat as the vampire moved into the drawing room. Terrified, the shout still ringing in his ears, and yet unable to stop moving toward the figure that called him.

When he reached the drawing room, his mouth opened to ask Barnabas what was the matter, but there were no words. Barnabas reached for him, grabbing him by the throat.

"Did you make a phone call to Vicki Winters?" he demanded without preamble, fingers tightening.

"No," Willie managed, the denial almost automatic, having had so much practice with Jason so recently.

The silver cane rose into the air and slammed into the side of his already bruised face, opening the flesh, so newly healed. A hand threw him to the ground, jarring him to the bone, and he shrank against the floor, holding his throat, unwilling to let his hand go to his face and actually find out what Barnabas' anger had wrought.

"I hope now your tongue is looser," said Barnabas.

Willie looked up to see him holding the cane by the dark shaft, as if ready to use it at a moment's notice. "I didn't do it," he insisted.

"I beg your pardon." Barnabas sounded quite surprised, almost as if indignant that Willie would carry on this charade for even a moment.

"I said," he insisted, pushing himself back and getting up, moving out of reach, "I didn't do it."

"I hope I don't hear correctly," said Barnabas, following him. "You say you didn't do it?"

Fear thickened in his throat. "I didn't--"

"Careful," Barnabas warned, "I'll have to loosen your tongue even further." He moved the cane in the air, and Willie watched it, mesmerized by the cobra-like movements.

"No," he begged, "don't, please."

"All I want you to do is to admit it."

"No," he said, his voice cracking as he shook his head. He knew at that moment that the only thing keeping him alive was the fact that Barnabas did not know the truth for certain. He might suspect that Willie had made that phone call, and he might even beat Willie out of frustration over the failure of his plans because of the phone call. But if he never knew the truth, and Willie planned to keep it from him as long as he could, then there would be one less reason for the vampire to kill him outright.

"A phone call was made to Miss Winters."

"I didn't do it," he repeated, stepping back, hitching his weight to the other foot. His hand was over his heart, as if he could manage to slow the furious pounding there.

"No one else could have." Barnabas sounded quite certain. "You let them know, didn't you." It was not a question.

"No." He shook his head. His hand went out, almost of its own accord, as if the small barrier of his arm could keep the vampire at bay.

"You sent them to the cemetery on Eagle Hill."

"I didn't." He shook his head. Denial was his only salvation and he hung on to it like a drowning man would a life raft.

"You told them Maggie would be there." He advanced on Willie, holding the cane higher.

Willie stepped backwards, toward the fire. "No."

"You also allowed your friend Jason to follow you to the cemetery."

He'd known Jason had been tracking his movements and didn't doubt for a second that Jason had followed him to the cemetery, but how Barnabas knew this was beyond him. He put both hands out now. "I didn't know he was following me."

"You've got him asking questions." This said as if Willie had done it on purpose. With malice.

"I couldn't help it." His voice cracked as the strain built up inside of him.

"I don't like people asking questions. And I like even less the people who inspire the questions."

"Why, I didn't tell him anything," Willie insisted. Surely, that was worth something, wasn't it?

Apparently not.

"I still say that I dislike people who break a trust. You broke a great trust, didn't you? You broke a trust when you told Miss Winters that Maggie could be found at Eagle Hill."

The vampire advanced, and Willie's hand went to his chest, pressing there for fear that his heart would explode. Barnabas raised the silver handle of his cane and pressed it against Willie's throat. Pressed harder until the blackness began to seep into his eyes, and he knew each breath would be his last.

"Don't you ever break my trust, Willie, do you understand?"

He heard Barnabas' voice as if through a fog.

"Never break my trust or I will destroy you."

_You have already destroyed me._

Suddenly, as Barnabas pulled the cane away, the air came rushing back into his lungs, and he gasped it in, rubbing his throat with both hands.

"I won't do anything wrong," he said, letting his hands fall to his sides when he could finally speak. "I promise I won't."

"I believe you," said Barnabas, almost primly, as if Willie's response had been a foregone conclusion from the start.

"But I'm afraid you must do something about your friend Jason McGuire."

Jason was hardly his friend anymore, but somehow he didn't think that Barnabas would appreciate that knowledge right then.

"You must tell him not to come around here anymore. And you must ask him to stop his stupid questions."

Willie stared at him, feeling dumbstruck that Barnabas would lay all of this on his shoulders. He'd been doing his best with Jason all along, telling him to go away, fending off his nosey questions; none of it had done any good.

"Well, I told him that," he insisted.

"Then you must tell him more effectively."

"Well, how?" he asked, as Barnabas moved and turned away from him. Something in Barnabas' voice told him that Barnabas thought Willie should take more drastic steps than he had been.

"I leave that entirely up to you. And if you fail," the vampire's voice trailed off suggestively and even his back looked stern, "Well, I suggest you don't."

"But I've done all I can to make him stop," he said, almost wailing at the unfairness.

"I hate to think that is true." Barnabas turned back around, and the Thing was glowing with full force, dark and horrible like the bottom of a pit where bodies have been thrown since time began.

He felt his shock and knew that Barnabas could see it. "I'll talk to him," he said quickly, hoping that it wasn't his imagination that the Thing was fading away. Hoping that Barnabas could see how eager he was to comply. "I'll see he stays away."

"And now leave me," said Barnabas, walking toward the window. 

Willie kept his eyes focused on the middle distance, a small sigh escaping him when he was no longer looking at the vampire.

"I want to meditate."

He almost rocked back on his heels with fatigue and relief that the Thing wasn't in his face anymore, so glad to be dismissed at last. His feet pulled him out of the room, even though his body felt as though it were hampered by lead weights.

"Oh, Willie."

He stopped just at the threshold of the drawing room.

"One small word of advice."

He swallowed. "What's that?" he asked, not looking at Barnabas. He kept his eyes on the staircase. On the bottom step. If he could only make it to the staircase. Once there, he was away, out of the way, hidden in his room. His head was throbbing and the side of his face was a map of fire.

"Don't allow your persuasion to arouse even further suspicions. And don't do anything that might attract attention to your dealings with Mr. McGuire. Nothing drastic."

_As if you even know the meaning of moderation._

He turned to look at Barnabas, whose face was half hidden by the shadows of the room.

"But how can I get him to stop?" he pleaded.

"I consider the problem entirely yours," came the answer. "Now leave me alone."

He was never so glad to obey an order in all of his life. Forcing his feet to move, he walked as quickly as he could across the foyer and up the stairs. Barnabas' eyes were on him the entire time. He could feel them, tracking him, watching him.

**Maggie is Made Prisoner**

Spackling cracks in the upper hallway by candlelight had only two good things going for it, that Barnabas had left the house earlier, leaving him some peace and quiet, and that Sam Evans had _not_ taken a punch at him when he'd tried to talk to the older man about his daughter. Barnabas had decided the night before that since Josette's room was now finished Willie could begin working on the upstairs hallway. Willie had agreed readily to this as working on the hallway would give him something to do and think about besides Barnabas' dark attraction for Maggie Evans. 

So he'd spent the day clearing out the junk that had accumulated both from the house being vacant and from their work on Josette's room. And now, with three sets of candelabras lined up in the middle of the hallway, he was smoothing the paste into the cracks in the plaster with a flat, metal spade. That's what the people at the hardware store had said he needed to do before he began painting or hanging new wallpaper. Woodwork was much more interesting, he'd decided that long ago. Doing wall work was utterly backbreaking, not to mention that most of the work, when everything was properly finished, was invisible. People could admire a nicely finished dresser, or a refurbished fireplace, but who would stand and applaud a well-done plaster job? Especially when it was eventually going to be hidden by wallpaper? Nobody, that's who.

"Willie!"

A shout like that could only mean trouble and this one practically vibrated the floorboards. He hurriedly put down his tools and, wiping his hands on his apron, raced down the hallway to the head of the stairs. There was a stiff breeze shooting up the stairs, as if the front door were open. As he clattered to the foyer, he was astonished to see that both doors were wide open and Barnabas was standing there with a figure, wrapped in a white sheet, in his arms.

The coldness of the outdoor air reached inside of him as he took in the pale, grey-cast bare feet dangling from the sheet, and the waterfall of chestnut brown hair that streamed over the dark lapels of Barnabas' caped coat.

Barnabas pushed past him roughly, and the head of the woman he carried bumped against Willie's chest. She was utterly cold and still, almost as if she were dead. But he knew that hair, and by its scent, who it was. He would have known it in a coalmine.

"That's Maggie Evans," he said, shocked.

"Close the door Willie, and follow me. I have a job for you." This said as Barnabas strode up the stairs, carrying the girl as if she weighed no more than a child.

Willie was still standing in the foyer by the time Barnabas had reached the top of the stairs, where he stopped and turned to look down at Willie. The door was still open, and a hard wind was keening at just the right angle so that Barnabas appeared, just for a moment, to be standing at the top of a tall cliff, the wind in his coattails, the sheet dancing around his body. And Maggie, in his arms, as still as the grave.

" _Now_ , Willie," said Barnabas. And then he disappeared from the top of the stairs.

As he closed the door, it took Willie a second of remembering how to breathe before the initial shock of this left him. To be replaced by a second feeling of despair and horror, one that numbed him all over. But he had to move, to go up those stairs and do whatever Barnabas wanted. His feet took him as far as the stairs, one foot on the step, the other on the floor. He couldn't move. 

Barnabas had kidnapped Maggie Evans.

Then he heard a sound, a small sound, like the whimper of a child. Or a lost soul. And then the thud of a bed shifting as something was placed upon it. All of the sounds in that house, with its vast, echoing silences, were known to Willie, but he had never heard that sound before. This and this only, the thought of Maggie alone in that room with the vampire, gave his feet the energy they needed to race up the stairs and open the door to Josette's room.

Barnabas had laid Maggie out on the bed and was unwinding the sheet. Her feet were bare, the bottoms of them dirty as if she'd walked miles, and Willie could see that she was only wearing a hospital gown, hiked up to her thighs. Her head was sideways on the pillow, hair spilling darkly over the lace of it and her hands near her face as if she'd just tried to cover her eyes. But she was unconscious, for which Willie was extremely grateful.

The vampire leaned over her, and, almost tenderly, pushed the hair out of her face and folded her hands across her stomach. Then he noticed Willie standing there.

"Come in and shut the door, Willie."

Willie did as he was told, eyes never leaving Maggie.

"What are you doing, Barnabas?" he asked. "Why'd you bring her here?"

"Because I want her here," said Barnabas, straightening up. He looked at Willie as if daring him to say anything.

"Wh-wh--" He stopped, unable to get any sounds out of his mouth.

"You are to wait on her, and see that she doesn't leave this room," began Barnabas. "Bring her anything she wants, but she is not to leave this room, do you understand?"

His jaw dropped open, and he wanted to protest, but Barnabas tipped his head to one side warningly. He snapped his mouth shut, and nodded.

"As for tonight, I want you to clean her up and put her to bed. And, when she is well enough, I want you to arrange a supper party for two, to be held in the front sitting room, since the dining room is not yet finished."

"A supper party?" he asked, trying to ignore the fact that he suddenly felt guilty about the dining room not being done.

"Yes," replied Barnabas, getting a slightly dreamy look in his eyes that Willie had never seen there before. It unnerved him. "Order the finest dishes suitable for a lady's palate, and get out the silver and polish it down. The best linen and the finest beeswax candles. No expense must be spared for our beautiful guest."

"Order the food?" he asked, his mind insisting on concentrating on the most mundane of details, as if to keep from being sick at what he was being asked to assist with. "From where?"

"From town, Willie." It was an exasperated reply and Willie could tell that he'd shaken Barnabas from his romantic mood. "Order from the finest restaurants in town and then keep everything warm in a chafing dish."

Willie had no idea what a chafing dish was but he wasn't about to ask; perhaps someone at one of the restaurants would know and tell him. And sell him one too; since he didn't know what they looked like, even if he came across one rooting about, he wouldn't recognize it.

"Sure, Barnabas."

The figure on the bed stirred, a pained sigh escaping her, and instantly Barnabas turned toward her. He brushed her forehead with one hand, and clasped her wrist with the other.

"Rest easy now, my dear, you've had a long journey."

As Willie watched from near the foot of the bed, he could see Maggie look up at the vampire, confusion tightening her face. Barnabas' hand on her face was gentle and slow as he stroked her cheek.

"Willie will take care of you, my beloved, so you're not to give him any trouble. You do what he says and I'll see you tomorrow night."

There was a little, hitching breath, and Maggie's eyes seemed to roll back in her head. Unconscious, she was, apparently, much less fascinating to Barnabas, who turned to Willie quickly. 

"At the supper party, she is to wear this," he said, and he reached for the pile of cloth at the foot of the bed. Only it wasn't a pile of cloth, it was a gown. An old gown, so old that the lace at the neck and sleeves was yellow and the sash around the waist held only a trace of its former color, a faded lilac. The silk seemed so frail that a strong yank would bust all the threads, and as Barnabas placed it in his arms, Willie was afraid that he would break it. 

"And this," said Barnabas, placing a long length of cloth over the dress. "Her veil."

The dust of years had woven their way into the lace so that the whole thing was grey. Hardly something a young woman would be proud to be seen in, let alone an unwilling prisoner.

"But Barnabas--"

"Perhaps she'll be ready the night after tomorrow," said Barnabas cutting him off. "Just after sunset."

He wanted to ask Barnabas where he'd gotten the gown; from the Collins' history books he knew that newly deceased brides were often buried in their bridal finery. But he refrained from asking, remembering the last time he'd asked a question like that, when Barnabas had brought home an old coffin for him to refinish. _Do not ask questions, Willie_ , Barnabas had said, _to which you truly do not wish the answers._

Barnabas was leaving the room, and the light, having been growing in the pre-dawn, was able to show Willie what he hadn't been able to see earlier. Barnabas stood at the door, and held it open as he stared, with longing in his eyes, back at the girl on the bed. Willie still held the garment in his arms, his fingers clenching at the stiff, broken cloth, when he realized the truth. Barnabas was in love with Maggie Evans.

When the door had finally shut behind the vampire, Willie sagged, and let the garment fall to the floor. Then, even though he knew that they were so dirty that a little floor dust couldn't possibly be noticed, he picked the dress and the veil up and laid them carefully over the back of the vanity dresser chair. A chair he'd refinished and painted carefully with his own hands. If he'd known that it would have been used for this purpose, he would have taken it and every other piece of furniture in the room, and set them on fire. Then he would have taken a torch and reduced the Old House to ashes. Preferably with Barnabas locked in his coffin in the basement.

He walked over to the bed and stared at the girl. She was the color of white chalk, and in her unhealthy sleep, her expression was marred by the darkness of pain. Willie found himself doing what Barnabas had done earlier, not in the way he might have done in his previous life had he been able to successfully trap her in a corner, but in a different way. Gently, the tips of his fingers tracing the bones of her cheek, her chin. 

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him as if almost knowing who he was. But of course, under the vampire's spell, she would not know, at least not right away. Still, it was disconcerting to have her looking right at him.

"Cold," she said, her voice husky. It sent shivers up the back of his neck.

Yes, she would be cold, in this drafty house, with no fire in the place, and only a thin, cotton gown between her and the damp air. Shivering, she drew up into herself, curling onto her side, and Willie realized, without really looking, that the hospital gown, woefully inadequate at the best of times, was revealing more than it was covering. In his previous life he might have ogled and leered and perhaps even taken advantage of her present state. But now, as she lay half awake and obedient under the vampire's spell, that thought was the farthest thing from his mind.

"Okay, Maggie," he said, his voice low, "we'll get you fixed up and warm, and then you can have a nice, long sleep, okay?" 

She licked her lips in response, and he realized that she might be thirsty, and on the heels of that, realized that he was completely inadequate to play wet-nurse. He didn't like taking care of people, and he didn't really know how. A sharp anger built up in him suddenly, and he wanted to leave her where she was, shivering and almost naked, and then just let on like he'd taken care of her. No one would know, and certainly Maggie would never tell.

And then she whimpered, very softly in the back of her throat. An almost involuntary sound, and as before, like that of a child's. Instantly the anger faded away, to be replaced by something else that he could not identify. It filled him like a bright bubble, and would not go away.

"You want some water?" he asked, leaning forward, smiling as gently as he could. "I'll get you some if you want."

A nod, almost imperceptible.

"Okay, then, you stay here, and I'll--"

He stopped. The room was almost ice cold, and Maggie wanted water, and he needed to get her into some warmer clothes, and wash her feet, and maybe get a hot wrapped brick to warm the sheets. He didn't know what to do first.

She shivered then, holding her arms across her chest, and this galvanized him into action. Taking part of the top blanket, he folded it across her. Then he said, "I'm going to get water and something to heat this room with, and I don't want you to go anywhere, okay? You stay right here till I get back."

Obediently, she nodded, drawing the corner of the blanket across her shoulder, and Willie hurried out of the room.

From his own room he gathered the almost full coal scuttle and some of the embers from his own fireplace. Returning to Josette's room, it was the fastest fire he'd ever assembled, and, thanks to the embers, it caught and spread, and soon the blue-white flames were reflecting off the hearthstones. Then he raced back downstairs to get a pitcher of water from the pump, and prayed, as he passed by the front door with the dripping pitcher in his hands, that the Old House would have no visitors that day. He had enough to worry about without trying to juggle unexpected visitors and a new prisoner.

He grabbed a clean washcloth and a mug from the dresser in his own room and hurried down the hall. Maggie was just where he'd left her, looking as if she were asleep at the moment. The room was a bit warmer and Willie wish he'd taken the time to heat the water for washing with, but there didn't seem to be time. A million tasks stretched ahead of him, and he felt out of breath even after just one flight of stairs.

He placed the pitcher and the mug on the dresser and laid the cloth on the bed beside her feet.

"C'mon, Maggie," he said, scooping his arms under her back, which was, to his consternation, almost bare, "sit up now and you can have a drink of water. You'd like that, wouldn't you? It's cold water, awfully cold, but it's very sweet and good. Better than any water you've ever tasted. And you'd like some, I'll bet. Wouldn't you?"

She nodded, pressing her elbows back against the mattress to help lift her into an upright position. He propped up two of the four pillows behind her back and then turned to pour some of the water into the mug. Then he handed it to her and watched as she took it with both hands. She was unsteady, and the water threatened to spill over, so Willie cupped his hands around hers and helped her to drink. It was the nearest he'd ever, ever been to her, and he found himself almost enchanted with the way her lashes lay against her cheeks, or the smudge along her nose, or the tensing of her lips that signaled she was done drinking. But the enchantment faded away the moment she looked into his eyes. She didn't say anything, but he could almost hear what she was thinking: _Who are you and what am I doing here?_

It broke his heart, just then, to ignore the questions he saw there, and he turned his eyes away and reached for the washcloth. He dipped it in the pitcher and wrung it, some of the cold water slipping up his elbows and wetting his sleeves as he did so.

"Now, it's gonna be cold, but you'll feel better after, okay?"

Maggie seemed to nod then, and so he folded the cloth and wiped her face with it, erasing the smudge from her nose and the dust that the road had left. Carefully, as if she _were_ a child. When he had finished, her face was clean, and she seemed more relaxed, but Willie could still see the strain there, all the more evident with the removal of the dirt.

He dipped the cloth again and wrung it as before, and pulled part of the blanket away from her legs. They were white and there was a faint scratch along one calf. He ignored this and, with one knee on the bed, picked up one foot and bathed it, erasing the grime. He did the same with the other foot, and placed both of her legs back under the covers. The entire time she watched him, her expression still, her eyes confused.

She needed a nightgown, or something to sleep in. Barnabas had said he'd ordered some things that needed to be placed around the room; Willie had picked up the order just the other day in town and the package still waited in the corner. Since he now realized that it had been Barnabas' plan all along to put Maggie in this room, he figured that the package would contain stuff for her. He knelt in front of it and ripped it open with his bare hands. His small growl of anger apparently distressed Maggie, for he could hear her toss on the bed, and she made that whimper again. He swallowed and slowed down.

In the box was a nightgown. The neckline and sleeves were dripping with lace, and Willie couldn't imagine anyone wanting to sleep in it, but it was thick and new and made of warm, white flannel. Pulling it out, he knew it would keep Maggie warm, if only he could figure out how to get her in it.

He took the garment and approached the bed. Maggie still watched him warily, but when he held out the nightgown to her, she reached for it as if she'd been waiting for just that moment.

"Help me, Pop," she said, as she reached behind her back to undo the strings there. Her voice did strange things to his stomach, and the fact that she thought he was Sam Evans made him feel crazy inside. She didn't deserve this, she didn't deserve to be kept in this drafty old house.

She was having trouble with the strings, so he leaned over her head and concentrated on making his fingers undo them, ignoring the long pull of her bare back as it disappeared beneath the cotton. His breath stirred the hair on her head as she leaned into him and rested against his shoulder. Of all the things Barnabas had had him yet do, this was the hardest. And it wasn't that he wanted to attack her, any notion of that was driven from him by a single glance of her questioning brown eyes. No, it was her vulnerability, her bare neck, the scratches on her legs, and the whimpers that she made that stopped him. And it was hard as hell to take care of her like this, like it meant anything good or decent. His hands shook as he undid the first set of strings and then the second. The others were undone already, and as he gathered the thin cotton in his hand to pull the hospital gown off her, he was surprised to find her hand on top of his. A hand, which though was ice cold, was gentle and kind.

"Don't peek," she admonished, sounding almost normal, lights sparking playfully in her eyes. Obviously, while she'd been sick, her Pop had been in attendance as nurse, and between the two of them they'd worked out a system. She reached for the white flannel nightgown and pulled it over her head. Inside of it, she undid herself from the cotton gown, and then shifted her arms into the sleeves of the flannel one. Watching this gymnastics, Willie almost had to laugh, it was so slick the way she did it, and all that was left for him to do was to pull the cotton gown through the neck of the other one, and she was perfectly dressed and ready for bed. She lay back with a sigh, and he shifted the pillows until she was flat again, and lifted the blankets and scooped his arm under her legs and placed her firmly underneath them.

For a moment, he looked at her lying there, hair tossed on the pillow, hands on top of the counterpane. Her hands were dirty too, he realized, and one of her fingernails had torn, and there was still blood along the side of it. He took the washcloth and wiped her hands, and then placed them beneath the blankets. Sighing, she turned over on her side, and Willie felt the awful weight of her care land on his shoulders.

She looked up at him sleepily then, and said, "What? No, kiss, Pop?"

He closed his eyes, sucking in the breath sharply between his teeth. She thought she was at home, safe in her own bed, with her beloved Pop tucking her in. Safe in the Evans' cottage with her Pop standing by, watching over her, instead of where she really was. Delusions, left over from medication they'd given her at the hospital, or just plain delusions conjured up by her own mind. He had no idea. But she thought she was home, and not in a drafty, creepy old house, held prisoner by a vampire, and watched over, not by a loving father, but by the despised caretaker, the unwilling dogs body, and by the man whose soul was owned by the very same vampire who wanted her. All the same man, who, as he watched her, would have given anything to have been anywhere but where he was. He opened his eyes.

Maggie made a little noise in her throat, as if to say, _hurry up, I'm tired_. He knew what she wanted from him, but could barely bring himself to do it, as it seemed the greatest betrayal of all, that of playing along with her delusions instead of grabbing her up and running out of the house, this very minute.

"Pop?" The voice was sleepy and petulant.

"Alright, sweetheart," he said, keeping his voice low like Sam's, "h-here I am." And he leaned down and with the softest of lips, kissed her on the forehead. He was shaking as he did it, but she only sighed and sunk her shoulders deeper into the blankets. "Sleep well," he whispered.

Her only reply was another heavy breath as she sunk into sleep.

He grabbed the coal scuttle and left the room, feeling shaky and wondering how he was going to make it. His own room was freezing, because even with the sun up, it faced north, and never completely warmed up, even in midday. Building a fire seemed the only thing he could manage, the only thing he could concentrate on. A layer of coal, some tinder, and a match, which he lit by striking it against stone. The house was silent around him as he lit the fire, and pulling a blanket from the bed, he wrapped himself up and sat on the hearth. The flames were low, but they were hot, and yet it seemed that nothing would warm him. He was shaking all over now, feet in the ashes, hands gripping the edges of the blanket. And tears, like ice, fell down his cheeks.

**Jason's Third Visit**

Jason shut the front door behind him, and left Willie shaking with relief. The sheriff's visit earlier in the day had been difficult, but he'd been ready for it, knowing, somehow that the law would be stopping by to enquire into his whereabouts the night before. He'd simply had to say what Barnabas had told him to say: That he'd been in Bangor, and that Barnabas could vouch for him. That was the magic of being a Collins, he knew. All they had to do was say something and it was so. And the sheriff, so beguiled by the power of the Collins' name, seemed to be satisfied by Willie's response, even though his story was so full of holes that it could be falsified by a few simple phone calls to Bangor.

But Jason's visit had been a disaster. Willie'd lost his temper, and raised a hammer to Jason, who'd taken it very badly and had smacked him to the floor. He got to his feet slowly as Jason left, pulling out the handkerchief he'd stuffed in his breast pocket. Wiping his mouth with it brought the sting of his opened lip into sharper focus, as if Jason had taken a razor and sliced right through it. He crumpled the cloth in a sudden fist, still feeling those blows that had rocked him, still reeling from the snap of Jason's fist against his jaw.

And Jason was just going to get angrier, he knew that from past experience. When Jason was working on a plan, particularly one as intricate as the one at Collinwood seemed to be, he was a bottled-up rocket waiting to explode. He liked to get rough too, venting his frustrations on the nearest hapless soul. In the past this had sometimes been him, most often not. But now, it seemed, Jason could sense that there would be no fighting back on Willie's part. And like the tiger absorbing the scent of his prey, he would know when to move in.

Barnabas had said to keep Jason clear, and he didn't like to be disobeyed. If he knew that Jason was still coming over and that Willie wasn't stopping him, there'd be no end to his fury.

It wasn't just a rock and a hard place. It was more like the halfway house between two hells. One, icy cold. The other, fiery hot. He had to keep Jason away. Only he didn't know how.

The door swung open suddenly, as it had a way of doing, the wood being prone to shrinking and swelling with the change of temperatures. He walked over to it and shut it carefully. Turned the bolt home. And, laying his hand against the wood, buried his head in the crook of his arm.

It was later in the evening, and Barnabas was checking the work Willie'd done in the library, while Willie stood nearby and held the candelabra as high as he could. It was very heavy, as it always was, being made of silver, but tonight it seemed like it was made of lead. The shadows on the walls weren't just flickering with the usual drafts across the flames, they were shuddering. He tried propping his elbow with his other hand, but his shoulder was throbbing and he knew he couldn't last much longer holding the thing aloft. He'd wrenched his shoulder somehow, probably when Jason had shoved him down and he'd landed against the wing backed chair.

"Hold it higher," said Barnabas, running his hands along the shelf Willie had recently finished repairing. 

Just then, Willie's shoulder spasmed, and the candelabra lurched downward.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded Barnabas, whirling around.

In his effort to get out of the vampire's reach, he stepped backwards and tripped over his box of tools, and dropped the candelabra. The candles, all but one, fell out of their sockets and continued to burn upward. The smell of smoke and burned paraffin was in the air, and he swooped down instantly on the one candle that was about to light the rug on fire. He put it out with his bare hands. By the time he'd gathered the candles and put them back in their places, he was sweating.

He looked at Barnabas. Barnabas didn't say a word.

He raised the candelabra again, using his other arm. Smoke wafted in the barely lit air. Barnabas was standing with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes were narrowed as he looked at Willie, and Willie was suddenly conscious of his swollen lip. It took everything he had not to raise one hand and press his fingers against the ache there.

And Barnabas had that almost human look to him, head tilted to one side as if listening to a quiet conversation just beyond earshot. Willie almost thought Barnabas was going to smack him one except the vampire remained absolutely still.

"It's not often such a clumsy servant produces such quality workmanship."

This startled him, making him take a mental step backwards. Compliments from Barnabas were entirely rare and always made him suspicious.

"Uh-uh, it's heavy," he replied, motioning to the candelabra.

"So it would seem," said Barnabas dryly. "Were you in a fight? There is a mark on your face."

This caught him off guard. "F-fight?"

"Yes, a fight," said Barnabas, seemingly not fooled by Willie's confusion. "Your lip is swollen as if someone had struck it with a fist."

Willie shook his head slowly, feeling the muscles in his neck spasm suddenly. It wasn't out of concern that Barnabas asked this, he knew that. Instead it was to ferret out the truth, a truth which Willie could not afford to reveal. Not only was Jason turning on him, he was also becoming increasingly difficult to handle. Jason was the person most likely to stumble on to Barnabas' secret, and when he did, it would be Willie that Barnabas would blame. If he could keep it a secret, if he could keep Jason out of the conversation a little while longer, maybe he could find a way to deal with his erstwhile partner without Barnabas becoming the wiser.

With Willie's continued silence, Barnabas' eyes narrowed, becoming mere glints in the candlelight.

"I will not abide your getting into fights," he said, not surprising Willie. "A gentleman's manservant avoids getting into fights at all times. Do you understand my meaning?"

Willie nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on Barnabas. Then his glance fell away, toward the floor and the piles of books. 

"As long as we have an agreement on this," finished Barnabas. Then he waved to the rest of the room. "I like the work you did on this one shelf. The others can be refinished the same." And nodding grandly at Willie, he plucked one of the candles from its socket and walked slowly out of the room.

Willie sighed deeply from his toes, and put the candelabra on the floor, his arm singing with the release of the weight. He looked around the room. Cast by the shadows of the candles at his feet were the outlines of dozens of shelves. The room seemed a dark cave of them. The roof was leaking in one end of the house, they had a new, somewhat dazed and unwilling houseguest, and they had the sheriff and Jason and everyone barging in every five minutes, and Barnabas wanted shelves.

Continued in Part 2...


	2. My Boy Willie - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the badness ensues.

**A Lady's Toilette**

After Willie firmly made Carolyn and Victoria leave Josette's room, and after he checked to make sure everything was okay, by the time he got downstairs, he found they were still there. They wanted to speak to Barnabas, of course, and to tell him how thrilled they were with the renovations. Willie wanted to burn their ears with the shocking news that Barnabas had barely raised a hand in any of the renovations of the Old House, and that the work had been all his. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and promised to pass along the message, at which point Barnabas showed up and accepted the compliments in person. While Barnabas charmed his female guests, Willie kept hearing sounds from the kitchen and hoped that no one else could hear them. His nervousness must have made itself known to Barnabas at some point because, finally, Barnabas escorted their uninvited guests to the front door and shut and locked it behind them. 

With Carolyn and Victoria's enthusiastic compliments for the wrong person ringing in his ears, he hurried to the kitchen, thinking it pure luck, and that alone, that they hadn't stumbled across their "guest." Looking after Maggie was rather like he imagined looking after a sleepwalker would be, and the risk of her falling asleep in the tub was quite high. He knocked gently before entering the kitchen, giving her a minute and tried not to imagine what would have been the result had Maggie been in Josette's room when Carolyn and Victoria came to call. The game most certainly would have been up, right then and there.

He heard a faint _come in_ and entered the kitchen, eyes averted to what was now Maggie's _toilette_ , as Barnabas called it. Some fancy word, he guessed, that meant the room where a lady got ready for a date. But as he focused on the task of getting water from the pump and adding it to that already heating over the fire in the fireplace, he knew it wasn't a date Maggie would normally have wanted to get ready for. Or one she would even have accepted, under normal circumstances. The water added, he stared out of the window over the sink, arms resting on the counter, soaking up the abundant warmth. Both the stove and the fireplace were going at full bore, heating up as much water as they could manage. Maggie was behind him, ensconced in the high-backed galvanized tin tub he'd found in the attic. It was rusty in spots, but not too bad, and it held water just fine. Nothing he'd like to use himself, the shower at the Y was much quicker, but she had voiced no objections to it when he'd led her to the kitchen earlier. He'd left her then, to her privacy, going upstairs to get her slippers, which she'd forgotten to put on, when he'd stumbled across their visitors.

"Willie?"

"Uh?" he asked, not turning around. 

On top of everything else, there was Maggie Evans, not three feet away from him. Sitting in a tub, naked and dripping wet. He'd actually had this _exact_ fantasy a time or two, and though the reality of it was exceeding his expectations, there was no way he could act upon it. Not with Barnabas waiting in the wings. But what really put a damper on things was Maggie herself, trusting and blank-eyed.

"I'm cold, Willie," she said with a sigh and a splash. "And I want to rinse my hair."

Her sigh was echoed by his own. He tried to focus on something positive. Like how to pour lukewarm water over the head of a naked female with his eyes closed, instead of the fact that he was getting her ready for her date with a vampire.

The bucket was heavy and he had to peek a bit to make sure he didn't bonk her in the head with it. Her back was to the fire when he opened his eyes, and he took in the soap dripping from her hair onto her back and glistening shoulders, and snapped his eyes shut again. The dark smudges on the backs of her arms had been dirt she'd missed, hadn't they? He hoped so, wishing it were true, though he knew it was not.

He poured the water over her head, and then got another bucket and poured that water over her head, too. Then he got her a towel, which he'd had warming in front of the fire, and held it up for her, looking the other way. When she was all wrapped up and seated in front of the fireplace, he got her another towel for her hair, and a comb, and bent to put the slippers on her feet. Then he looked up.

She was looking down at him, the towel around the ends of her hair, the comb in one hand. Her eyes were a little glassy, and maybe it was from the dampness of the bath or the heat, but he thought she looked a little more aware. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not.

"Willie?"

"What is it?" He ducked his head, and concentrated on making sure the slippers were snug on her feet.

"What am I doing?"

"You're gettin' ready for a date. You gotta dry your hair and look your best, okay? You've got a dress waiting upstairs for you."

The slippers were on now, they weren't going to get any snugger and so he had to look up. Maggie was flushed, dark, damp bits of hair straying across her face, and she was looking right at him with an expression that told him she thought he was trying to pull a fast one on her. Which he was. In her normal life she was smart enough to figure that out. Was trying to do so now.

"A date?"

"Yeah, a date," he said, softly. "A really nice one at this fancy place." He wished he could feel as convincing as he sounded.

She seemed to think about this, tilting her head to one side as she looked at the fire. "A date."

"Yeah, an' you don't want to be late for it, so you better get drying your hair an' everything." He had no idea what girls did to get ready for dates, only that it included hair washing and nice dresses.

She was nodding now, and the constriction that had been building up in his chest eased some. It was easier when she went along with things, even though later he felt bad about it. And then, as if his sense of urgency was catching, she began rubbing at her hair with the towel and scooted closer to the flames to dry it by the fire's heat. The larger towel that was wrapped around her slipped a bit, but he just moved away and began to concentrate on heating up the food instead. Much easier to put the mashed potatoes in the oven of the cast iron stove, or to dump the green bean dish in a pot on top of it than to try and not look at Maggie. She was too unaware of how she seemed to him, shoulders rosy in the heat, hair slipping over her bare arms, and it just didn't seem right somehow to do anything else.

By the time he had everything well on its way to heating up, Maggie announced that her hair was dry enough.

"I'd like to go to my room now and finish dressing."

"Okay," he said, wiping his hands on his striped apron. He'd build a fire up there, he decided, and she could finish getting ready in privacy. Then he would bring her down whenever Barnabas said so. She was compliant when he helped her to her feet, clutching the towel to her chest. The other towel fell from her hair to the floor.

"Don't mind that," he told her, noticing the edge of fear in her eyes. "I'll get it later."

And as he led her up the stairs, he wondered, and not for the first time, why taking care of her was easier than letting her go.

**An Interrupted Meal**

"Willie, please light the candles," said Barnabas, not looking at him. "Miss Josette is waiting to be served."

For a second, Willie couldn't figure out what Barnabas was talking about. Josette, of course, was long dead, and only the three of them were there. But Barnabas was looking at Maggie, and the gleam in his eyes was so attentive that suddenly everything made sense. All those comments about Josette a few weeks back, all those midnight pacings up and down the corridors of the Old House, all of it had been about Maggie Evans. Who apparently, in Barnabas' mind, was a replacement for his beloved Josette.

Willie ducked his head down and finished serving to both of them, even though it was obvious that only Maggie would be able to eat anything, that is, if she would eat. By the way she sat, and stared at nothing, Willie had the feeling that there would be plenty leftovers of food that he suddenly had no appetite for.

It was such a mockery of a couple having dinner that Willie found himself growing angry. Maggie looked so lost in her gown, eyes blank, hands completely still in her lap. She obviously had no clue what was going on, like a small child at a grownup person's gathering. Barnabas, on the other hand, was so eager, so insistent that she was Josette, that the two of them were having a marvelous time. The disgust rose in Willie's throat like a bad meal. It was one thing to kidnap a young woman and hold her prisoner, and another to pine after a long, lost love. Willie was under no illusions that he had the power to stop Barnabas from doing either. But to bring Maggie Evans in and make like she was Josette made the blood start pounding at the back of his head with rage.

Barnabas noticed him standing there staring at Maggie, and when Willie felt the force of the vampire's attention, his body jerked with a start. 

"What is it, Willie?"

He wanted to say it, right out loud, he really did. Wanted to tell Barnabas exactly what he thought of the whole sordid mess, and then, while Barnabas stood there stupefied with shock, pull Maggie out of her chair, yank that filthy veil off her head, put her in the car, and drive her home. And then apologize to her father, after which he would place himself in the hands of the authorities and throw himself upon the mercy of the court. It seemed such a sensible plan as he thought of it, but then Barnabas was looking at him still, and instantly the idea crumbled into dust. There was no way he would make it any farther than the first sentence of exactly what he thought. Barnabas would probably reach for one of the silver butter knives and use its nice, dull edge to carve his heart out.

"Nothin'," he said instead.

Then came the knock on the door. Of course, it _would_ be Sam Evans and Joe Haskell. He almost wanted to tell them, at that moment, _sure, come on in, your daughter's inside having dinner with a vampire_. But of course he couldn't. Not only because Barnabas was in earshot, but because he couldn't even begin to get the words out.

He told them to wait, and then shut the door and went to tell Barnabas.

"Take her upstairs and wait with her," said Barnabas, quickly. "I'll get rid of them."

As fast as he could, he escorted Maggie upstairs to Josette's room. Past the front door her father and Joe waited behind, up the stairs and down the dusty hall. Into the room that he himself had helped to prepare for her, with sage green, pale grey, and white. She wandered a bit, as if trying to find a focus, aimless almost, as if she really were a ghost. From downstairs, Willie could hear the murmur of voices as he waited, one hip cocked, with his hand on the doorknob.

"C'mon, you sit down now," he said, going to her, "nice and quiet."

She looked at him, as if looking for the truth in his eyes.

Suddenly, as was the way of old houses, the voice of Joe Haskell came sharply into focus.

"Sam, do you want me to take the easel too?"

And then Sam's voice, clear as a bell, "No, I think it's better if we leave the easel here and keep the painting on it."

And then their voices faded into murmurs again.

It was enough. Maggie spun around the room as if shot out of a cannon. She whirled from the window to the bed, almost crying out. Willie grabbed her, one arm around her waist, one hand clamped over her mouth. Held her for a second, her tears streaming past his palm, her body, twisting and anxious, against him. Then all of a sudden she broke free and ran to the window, knocking over a bowl of flowers.

"You better hope that Barnabas didn't hear that," he said, moving toward her. Of course Barnabas had heard it, of course he had. Was probably even now explaining the noise away. Maggie collapsed on the settee as she heard the car drive off, barely able to support herself on her arms, head bowed, the veil covering all expression.

The door opened. The vampire walked in, his face dark, eyes glittering with anger.

"Barnabas." It was all Willie could manage.

"Get out of here, Willie." Not even asking what had happened.

"Oh, no, it was my fault. I knocked it over. It was an accident, Barnabas, yeah, an accident."

"I said get out of here."

It was in his eyes, what Barnabas was going to do. The Thing was there, only this time it was marked for Maggie Evans, who couldn't quite figure that the easier way was to believe that she was Josette.

"Don't, don't hurt her." Willie stayed between them, hands out, hovering protectively over Maggie.

"I said _go_."

Head bowed, Willie slunk toward the door. But in the second that Barnabas' back was to him, he turned to look at the back of the vampire's head. Eyes narrowed, he realized he might could get him, if Barnabas were unaware, his attention elsewhere, on the girl. Could jump him, and knock him out and grab Maggie and the two of them could flee into the night...

Barnabas' head turned, as if he could hear every word that Willie was thinking, and the vampire looked right at him.

The moment of courage faded faster than it had appeared. Willie left the room, and closed the door behind him. A second later, he heard Maggie scream. Before he could think, he shoved the door open again to see them both there, frozen. Barnabas gripping Maggie by the arm, one hand raised to strike her. 

"No, Barnabas!"

Both of them turned to look at him. Maggie with tears running down her face, Barnabas, eyes of fire.

"She wanted to leave me; she must be punished!"

Willie rushed forward before he could think about what he was doing. He grabbed Barnabas' arm and pulled on it, thinking to stay the blow before it fell. To his shock, Barnabas slapped her anyway, even with Willie clinging to his arm, and he felt the force of the blow against the girl's face. Too startled to even cry out, Maggie shrank against the back of the chair, tears streaming down her face, pulling with all her might against the grip that held her.

Willie slid his body between the two of them, almost sitting on Maggie, holding his body up by force of will as he tried to pry Barnabas' fingers from her arm.

"It wasn't her fault, it was an accident, c'mon Barnabas, an accident. She didn't mean it, I did it, it was my fault."

In an instant, Barnabas shrugged off both of them, and stepped back. Willie almost fell over, but righted himself by pushing up against the arm of the settee, staying where he was. He could hear her breathing behind him, small, sobbing breaths, but she remained quiet and still.

"She wanted to get away from me," said Barnabas, staring at her.

"Yeah, okay, but wouldn't you have done the same, Barnabas? Tried?"

"So she must be punished."

"No, you don't want to do that, it was my fault, I'm the one who should be punished."

Those dark, thick eyebrows raised. "Oh?"

Faltering, his courage was faltering. "Y-yeah."

"Are you trying to tell me that you are wanting to take the punishment in her stead? Someone needs to be punished for making all that noise and arousing our guests' suspicions. Are you telling me that it should be you instead of her?"

Once, not too long ago, Maggie had referred to him as a beast. Though she came from the same class as he, from the lower classes, the wrong side of the tracks, she had a tough, self-reliant core that despised Willie and his weaknesses. She'd taken no pains to conceal her feelings toward him, and made him feel pretty much like worm dirt every time she talked to him. But there had been the one time, right after the beating he'd received from Burke Devlin, when she'd been kind to him.

Directly after the beating, after Jason had pulled Burke off him, Willie had run into the night. Had left the Blue Whale and spent the night walking around the town. Afraid to go back to Collinwood; unwilling try and deal with Jason again just yet. Afraid to lie down on a park bench for fear he'd be arrested for vagrancy. When the dawn had come, his feet too tired to continue, head and body aching, he'd slunk into the first open shop in town, the hotel coffee shop. There, Maggie Evans, doing the morning shift for a friend, had been slinging hash, and pouring coffee. It wasn't her normal shift, and he hadn't thought to meet up with her there. Hadn't wanted to see her, or anyone else that had witnessed his humiliation with Burke.

He'd caught her eye and the sudden start of her body as she hastily righted the salt shaker she'd knocked over. By her expression he knew she was very much afraid that he'd come to trash the place. But that was the last thing he wanted to do; he was just too tired. Looking away, he made to slink out the way he'd come. She'd caught up with him at the door and guided him to a booth in the corner. Pushed on his shoulders until he sat, and put a napkin in his hand.

"Nosebleed," she said. And went away.

A moment later, she was back with coffee, pouring him a hot, black cup of it. Not knowing what else to do, in the face of this, he drank it, feeling it warm him from the inside out. Another minute later, she was back with a plate full of food. Eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns, the whole works.

"Eat," she said then. And went away again.

So he ate, wiping his nose in between times until the bleeding stopped. It was the best breakfast he'd eaten in a long, long time. Halfway through, she came back to warm his cup, pausing to ask, "Everything okay?"

He looked up at her then, to catch the tail end of kindness and concern in her big, brown eyes.

"Ah-Maggie," he started, and then stopped at the warning he saw there. This was not a friendship on the verge of being started. It was simply human kindness, and he was no more than a stray dog that she was feeding. As soon as he finished, he knew it would be as if they'd never met. He nodded his head, almost bowing it to her. "Yeah, yeah, thanks, Maggie, this is great."

She nodded, tipping her head to one side to acknowledge this, and went to warm someone else's cup.

He was about done with the last of the hash browns and knowing he should leave soon and not wanting to leave this clean, warm place, when he heard Burke Devlin's voice. It was the breakfast hour, so of course, Burke would come to where Maggie worked. Willie's back was to the door, but his shoulders sank, it would only be seconds before Burke discovered him there and made mincemeat of what was left of him. Before he kicked Willie's ass out of town.

"Hey, Burke, here, have a seat." Maggie's voice was cheerful and welcoming.

"Thanks, Maggie, always a pleasure coming into your coffee shop. Nice to see you in the morning for a change." Burke's voice rumbled toward Willie across the still morning air.

Instant death was imminently better than the suspense of waiting to die, so Willie wiped his hands, pulled on his jacket and slid out of the booth. Upon turning toward the chair where Burke was sitting, he saw Maggie rushing toward him, one finger on her lips to keep him quiet. He was startled, mouth open to say something, when she shook her head. With firm hands, she pulled him toward the metal doors that led to the kitchen. Once inside, she pointed at the door that led to the outside world and freedom. For a second, he could see the back of Burke's head through the scratched glass in the kitchen door. He was moving it around, obviously looking for Maggie. Willie shuddered.

He reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled it out. "How much do I owe ya?" He probably had a five spot he could give her, some for the great breakfast, but mostly a huge tip.

"Put your money away, Willie Loomis, I don't want it."

"But Maggie--"

"Don't talk to me, Willie. Just go home, pack your bags, and get out of town."

"B--"

"What Burke gave you, you had coming, only probably he overdid it. He usually does. But he means what he says, and he loves to prove a point with his fists."

The brown eyes were concerned again, and she probably didn't even know that it showed. Willie smiled on the inside. She was something special alright, couldn't resist his puppy dog charms. He leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the lips, somewhat difficult for him to feel what he was doing, since his lips were swollen. The shock on her face was worth a million bucks though. She opened her mouth to speak.

It was in that second that he realized what he'd done. Burke was just on the other side of that door, and all she had to do was to call out his name, and point the finger at Willie Loomis. Then he would be dead, or in jail; he didn't know which would be worse. The blood left his face in one, enormous rush.

"Maggie, I--"

"Was that a thank you kiss?" she asked, with ice in her voice.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, yeah, it was and it's just that you're so pretty and kind," his voice fell almost to a whisper, "an' it was a great breakfast, it really was, and I owe you one."

Through the window, he could see Burke Devlin approaching. Not one to recognize boundaries, he would soon be pushing through the swinging doors, to find him, Willie Loomis, in a compromising position with the very fine Maggie Evans.

Maggie turned her head to see what had widened his eyes so, and saw Burke coming too.

"Better go, Willie," she said, pushing him toward the door. "Better hurry, so I'll have time to forget you were here before he gets here."

Turning away, Willie rushed out the door, fast enough to miss Burke, but slow enough to hear him ask, "Who was that?"

And Maggie's casual reply, "Oh, just the delivery boy."

Not many would have done the same, in her position. There had been a million ways she could have tripped him up and turned him over to Burke Devlin. She even had reason to do so. She could have, but she hadn't.

Barnabas still waited for his answer.

"Yeah," said Willie, resigned. "Yeah, I'm responsible."

A quick look at Maggie told him she was totally out of it. Her eyes were blank as she stared at the tips of her fingers, and she couldn't care less if she were in heaven or hell, as long as Barnabas' attention was elsewhere. Willie knew exactly how she felt.

Barnabas held out one hand. And waited.

Inside, Willie collapsed. He had thought that Barnabas was just going to smack her around some, and that he could take. A couple of open-handed slaps across the face and it would be finished. But no, Barnabas, it appeared, was going to flay him alive. The vampire's plans had almost been ruined in the blink of an eye, so of course he was going to be wanting to take it out on whomever was responsible. Which, at this moment, and by his own admission, would be him.

He couldn't quite hide the shudder which ran through him as he undid his own belt and handed it over to Barnabas.

"Please don't--"

His words were cut off by Barnabas grabbing one arm and twisting it quickly so that he was forced to his knees. He connected with the floor with a sharp bang, curling over, one arm wrenched backwards, as Barnabas held him there.

_Don't do it here_ , he'd wanted to say. _Not in front of the girl._

But now he was on his knees at her feet, and she was so close to him that he could see the folds of cloth in her stockings, the drape of veil across her gown, and the shadows it made. The vampire grabbed him by the hair and forced his head up. Made him look at Maggie.

"See Josette? This is gallantry. This is what happens when you are disobedient."

With the veil half covering her face, he could still see her huge, brown eyes, and the puzzlement there as to what had brought him to be at her feet. She looked as though she wanted to say something, but had quite forgotten what it was. And then, for a second, they connected. And then it disappeared, faster than it had come.

Barnabas let go of his hair, and with the shock of it, he dropped his head. The belt whistled through the air, and then landed, wrapping itself around his back, and his ribs. It was electric, the pain, sudden and all around. Again the belt whistled and landed, and again, over and over. It was far worse than the beating he'd received in the kitchen. That time, the transgression had been minor, a lapse of information between master and servant. This time, he was serving as a lesson to both of them, and so the punishment was twice as hard. 

With one arm held solid, he could not move away, could not curve his body against the blows. One slice of leather landed along his neck, the other against the soft part of his side, across his breast, under his arm. He was yelping now, with each blow, and that only made them harder. Barnabas was hitting him harder, pulling his arm back even tighter to keep him from pulling away. Twisting the muscles, hand locked in a bruising hold on his wrist.

Maggie was shrinking back on her couch, unable to move farther away than that because he was on part of her gown. Trapped, she began to whimper, hands over her ears, unable to shut her eyes.

With one final, crashing blow across the back of his neck, Barnabas let him go, and he collapsed on the floor. He was hot all over, and the blood rushed in manic, pulsing circles under the skin everywhere the belt had landed. Barnabas dropped the belt on him, and it circled there in one big loop.

"Get out, Willie."

He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't find air small enough to fit into his lungs, couldn't see for the stars of pain in front of him. He felt a small kick to his ribs.

"I said, get out!"

Rolling back, he caught the belt as it fell. On his back he looked up at the vampire, and then at Maggie. He took a breath, and pushed himself to his feet, barely stable, dizzy.

"An- an' you won't punish the girl?" He had to ask it, even though he was shaking from head to foot. The bloodlust was still in Barnabas' eyes, and his large hands were still fists.

Those eyes widened and the fists raised, as of their own accord. Willie took a step back, and then another. He moved until his back was to the door, and one hand behind his back was on the door handle. He could do no more, he had not the strength to do any more. There was nothing else he could do.

"Promise me you won't," he said, anyway.

"Gallantry, Willie," said Barnabas, his fists relaxing, "can only take you so far." Then his voice lowered to a whisper and his eyes narrowed. "Get out."

And Willie got out, limping down the hall and then down the stairs to face the congealing remains of a supper party for two. Sliced pheasant in wine sauce, some green vegetable with an Italian name, and some elegantly formed mashed potatoes. And all of it stone cold. He sat down gingerly in Maggie's chair, feeling the heat along his back and legs and the blood whirling around under his skin. He looked at the food, keeping one ear cocked for any ugly noises from upstairs. His back was on fire still, though his lungs had managed to find some air, and so he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and one hand under his chin.

No noises from upstairs yet, back aching and sore, and a table full of expensive food that no one would eat. Barnabas wouldn't, and as for Maggie, surely she wouldn't be able to stomach anything this fancy. Was it to go to waste, then? It seemed a shame, considering how much money Barnabas had spent on it. And almost an entire bottle of wine, opened long enough to have breathed an ocean of air; claret, Barnabas had called it. Maggie's glass, mostly full and barely touched. He saw his own hand reach out for it and pull it closer on the table, pulling at the tablecloth. A little spilled over the edge and onto the white linen, maroon red, like the inside of an old bruise.

Making a face, he pushed the glass away, and the wine bottle, too, not caring if it turned to vinegar with the rough treatment. Grabbing instead the fork at Maggie's plate, he cut into a slice of pheasant and shoved it into his mouth before he could change his mind. Even ice cold, it was delicious, melting on his tongue and full of strange spices he couldn't identify. In short order he finished the pheasant, and then the potatoes, with their swirls of butter and cream. Even the vegetables, green-beans-and-something-Italian, were good. He was just gotten up to grab the chafing dish for seconds when he heard his name being shouted from the top of the stairs.

"Willie!"

He had barely enough time to swallow and wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve before he got to the bottom of the stairs.

"What's the matter, Barnabas?"

"Come here."

The vampire's voice was entirely too quiet, and Willie's fingers shook as they wiped away traces of wine sauce from his chin, where he could suddenly feel it, shining and obvious. When he reached the top of the stairs, Barnabas grabbed his raised arm, and for one horrible second Willie thought that Barnabas knew that he'd eaten from Maggie's plate and was going to shove him down the stairs. Instead, Barnabas shoved him toward Josette's room.

"Go," he said, motioning with his head toward the door at the end of the hall. "Go and tend to her."

"What?"

"Do it, do as I say." This punctuated with another rough shove that sent Willie against the wall, bringing his newly bruised flesh protesting to life.

There was almost no light to see by, save from the candlelight that reflected up from the foyer, but Willie had the ominous feeling that he was standing in the near dark with a monster. Something had darkened Barnabas' lips and brightened his eyes and the hand that grabbed him was almost warm. He pulled away from it, rubbing the back of his arm where it had been.

"Sure, Barnabas," he replied, backing away. "Okay."

When he made it to the end of the corridor this way, he reached out for the handle to the door of Josette's room and turned it. Barnabas was still standing there, watching, eyes gleaming in the shadows like a wolf's. He hadn't moved.

"I'll take care of her, Barnabas," Willie said to the eyes. "Honest, I will." 

He slipped inside the room and shut the door behind him, sighing with relief. Then he turned and saw Maggie sprawled on the bed and realized that he still wasn't safe. He hadn't shut the horror out there in the hall; it was here in the room with him.

The dress Maggie wore was all rucked about, and as he walked closer, he realized that there was blood on her neck and her hands, almost as if she'd tried to fight him off. A large smear decorated her cheek, and at this point, Willie had to clamp a hand over his mouth. Barnabas had bitten her, savagely, the skin on her neck almost torn, rather than punctured. Blood was still flowing, but slowly, clotting in dark clumps the color of claret.

Pheasant in wine sauce threatened his stomach with a mass exodus, but he swallowed and tried to catch his breath. Sweat broke out along the back of his neck and he tried to slow his breathing down and think of what he had to do. And tried not to think of the fact that while he'd been eating his dinner, Maggie'd been subjected to this.

On the bed, Maggie stirred, and as she did so, fresh blood rushed forth from her neck. He rushed to her side, and grabbed her hand, bending low.

"Don't move, honey," he whispered. "You've been hurt, hurt bad, and if you move, it'll make it worse. You understand?"

She seemed to nod then, barely conscious.

"I'm goin' to take care of you, okay?" He licked his lips and tried to calm the pounding of his heart. "But you have to do exactly as I say, else you won't get better. So lie very still, now, very, very still."

Maggie's head lolled sideways on the pillow and Willie had to swallow. She was whiter than the sheets on which she lay, and some of the blood had matted itself in the strands of her hair and soaked into the pillow.

"I'll be right back, honey," he promised, and raced out of the room.

Downstairs, he filled a bucket with the ice cold water from the pump and wondered if this night would ever be over. 

Apparently not.

From his room he grabbed the pillowcase from his bed, and the towel he used at the Y. There was nothing cleaner in the house except for the sheets on Maggie's bed, and he knew he would end up using those, if necessary. Returning to the room he saw that Maggie had not stirred. She lay as still and quiet as if she were dead, and his heart lurched in his throat as he walked up to her.

"Maggie?" he whispered, putting the bucket down. "Maggie, it's me, Willie."

Her eyelashes flickered. She was still alive.

He cleaned her face first, and then her hands, and then wiped the edge of the towel across her neck, grimacing as the thickened blood pulled away from the wound. He would just have to do it, he knew, no matter how bad or nasty it looked. Just have to rinse out the towel and lay it on her neck and pull away all the old blood, and then lay a fresh part of the towel on it until she stopped bleeding. The cold water seemed to help, and he repeated the process over and over until there was no more fresh blood, and the wounds on her neck were darkened only from the bruises surrounding them. Then her hair. He dampened his pillowcase and wiped at her hair until the bedding beneath her head was drenched and her neck was clean of blood. He was shaking all over when he finished.

At least she was alive, though it looked as if Barnabas had gone on and taught her the lesson he thought she'd deserved, even after Willie had taken the punishment for her. Perhaps something she'd said, or perhaps just because Barnabas' rage had not been eased by taking the belt to Willie. He wiped his eyes with the heels of his palms, shutting out the room, and took several deep breaths. 

When he took his hands away from his eyes, the room was still there, and Maggie was still unconscious, sprawled on the bed in her elegant but filthy silk gown. At least the blood hadn't touched the lace of her dress and there was only a spot on one sleeve that he thought he could get rid of with plenty of cold water. As if that were the important thing, which he knew was not. Easier to think of that than the atrocities he was participating in. And not willingly, no, but even protesting madly would not alleviate him of the guilt that was fast building up in his heart.

He put her to bed with all the gentleness and care he could muster, undoing the dress and pulling it off her without disturbing a hair on her head. She only whimpered for a second, when her head was buried in the darkness under the yards of lace, but he whipped the edges of the gown over her head as fast as he could. She was white all over, and the skin he could see that wasn't covered by her undergarments, was dappled with bruises. Her arms especially, where he'd grabbed her earlier this evening to keep her from running and calling for her Pop. Those were his handmarks there. And even though some of the larger one's were obviously Barnabas', it was mostly his hands that had marked her like that.

He had to turn his mind off, he had to, otherwise he was never going to make it. And what would become of Maggie Evans then? Left to the tender mercies of a vampire whose temper was a lit spark? Turning, he grabbed the nightgown from the little marble-topped dresser at the side of the bed, and slipped it on her. Then he switched the blood-stained pillow for a relatively clean one and tucked her in the bed, easing the covers up to her chest. He checked the wounds on her neck. Her breathing was easy now, and she didn't look like she was in pain. But she didn't look peaceful in her slumber either, for all that the wounds on her neck seemed to be subsiding. That was the wonder of vampire-inflicted wounds, he realized with some derision. They seemed to go away so fast that no one could ever pinpoint what had caused them in the first place. A good bargain for Barnabas, at least.

Sitting back on his heels in front of the fireplace, he built up the coals to last the night, and poked at a lump with the edge of the little shovel. Josette's room was warmer than the rest of the house, with the thick heavy drapes over the windows hiding the rays of the sun just peeking over the horizon. The floor had a brand new wool carpet, done over in a French pattern, an Auboson weave, Barnabas had called it. His own room barely had windows that were solid, let alone a carpet. It was quite warm in here, and he was not inclined to leave. Instead, he pulled one of the extra pillows from off Maggie's bed, and the woolen throw that lay at the bottom. Laying the pillow on the carpet in front of the fire, he tucked himself in there, and watched the flickering flames until he fell asleep.

**To Bangor at Sunset**

His arms ached as he emptied the red-tinted water down the drain in the kitchen sink. Maggie was sleeping now, pale and fitful, the smudges under her eyes purple, skin icy cold. The bleeding had stopped early on, but then, only a few hours after he'd fallen asleep at sunrise, she'd began to tear at her throat with her hands, opening the wounds again. Like they itched. He'd not wanted to tie her hands down to keep her from scratching at her neck, so he'd sat by her bed and waited and watched, and pulled her hands away whenever she would come near consciousness enough to be irritated by the vampire bites. 

It was just now sunset and the bites had finally closed up and there was almost nothing left to tear at. He put the bucket on the floor and washed his hands for the hundredth time that day, feeling his body sag as he leaned over the sink.

"Get out."

Startled, he whirled around, flinging water everywhere. Barnabas stood at the door, as pale as Maggie, eyes like dark, empty sockets.

"Wh-what?"

"I said get out."

It didn't make any sense.

"G-get out? Get out of where?"

In three, striding steps Barnabas came closer, latching onto Willie, fingers biting into his upper arms. He shoved him toward the side door, grabbing the keys to the car as he went by the spot where they hung on the wall. These he pressed into Willie's hand, closing his palm around them in a fist until Willie cried out when they cut into his skin.

"Get out of my sight," answered Barnabas, his voice sounding like it was being dragged across dry rocks. "I want you out of my sight."

The closed door banged against the back of Willie's head, and he was brought up short.

"But what about Maggie? Who will look after her?"

"I will look after her."

There was a fire where Barnabas' eyes ought to be and Willie's stomach lurched with the idea that she would be left to the vampire's indelicate care.

"I will look after her, and much better without your interference. Now go. And don't come until sunrise two days from now."

"But Barnabas--"

This was cut short as Barnabas opened the door and pushed Willie over the threshold. He stumbled over the broken flagstones, fighting to stay upright as he turned back around. There was blood on his palm, and the keys were slippery in his hand.

"But Barnabas, you can't, I mean, you need me to look after her," he pleaded, knowing with certain dread that Barnabas' cruelty would be given full rein if left alone with the girl. "You need me to--"

Barnabas' open hand slammed into the side of his face, sending him sprawling to the wet grass, knees landing hard against the edge of a flagstone. 

"Barnabas, please--" he almost whispered, tasting the blood from the inside of his mouth as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. He looked up at Barnabas, now standing over him in the growing dusk of the back yard. "Please."

_Please don't hurt her._

"Go." The vampire raised his arm to point at the waiting station wagon. The irony of it was, Willie, at any other time, would have paid cold, hard cash for a few days away from Barnabas and the Old House. And now he would have given his soul to stay.

Barnabas was having none of his hesitation. He hauled Willie up by one arm, marched him over to the car and threw him at it. The metal was unyielding and hard, and splinters of pain raced through Willie's shoulder. Another minute and Barnabas would be throwing him in the car and slamming the door, and Willie had the uncomfortable feeling that the vampire wouldn't be checking first to see if all his fingers and toes were out of the way. On top of which, the Thing was working flat out, and Willie could feel something clenching at his heart, insistent and cold.

"Okay," he said, bringing his hand up as a shield, "okay, I'm goin'."

Barnabas stepped back, and Willie open the door, sank into the seat and shut the door quickly himself. The windows were already rolled up and Willie didn't dare unroll one to ask that Barnabas be gentle with her, didn't dare hesitate starting the engine to say anything at all. Only watched as Barnabas stormed back in the house, and allowed himself one small, shuddery sigh.

There was nothing he could do. If he went back in the Old House now, Barnabas would tear him to pieces. And then Maggie next. As he drove down the driveway and headed out, he tried to console himself with the fact that Maggie was Barnabas' Josette. Barnabas loved Josette. Loved her more than any woman he'd ever known. Would he hurt her? Maybe he just wanted to be alone with her. Like on a honeymoon.

These thoughts took him as far as the outskirts of Bangor, where he began to realize that his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly that he'd lost all feeling in his fingers. That he'd not turned on the heat at all and his feet were two large blocks of ice. And that he'd bitten his lip hard enough to make it bleed. It was the heat of the blood dripping down his chin that made him try to wipe at it with his hand. Only his hand wouldn't unlock from the steering wheel.

He pulled over at the next rest stop and parked the car under the first burned out street light. There was no one else at the rest stop, but he felt less conspicuous in the dark. Working his fingers against the steering wheel, he managed to unclench one hand and turned the heater on full blast. The engine was warmed up enough so that hot air came through the vents almost immediately. It washed over him in pulsing waves, like a blessing, and he tipped back his head and sighed. Now he could wipe his chin, now he could start to feel his feet and hands and the pounding in his head, which he realized he'd been feeling for the last hour but hadn't been paying any attention to. Barnabas had smacked him pretty hard; even his jaw hurt, now that it was all thawed out.

As he rubbed it, he wondered what he was supposed to do for two days. He'd driven toward Bangor almost instinctively, as it was where he normally would go when Barnabas or the Old House demanded something that couldn't be found in the shops of Collinsport. Before Barnabas had come into his life, he would have found the nearest bar, picked up the prettiest gal he could sweet-talk into it, and spent the night with her at the nearest motel. None of that appealed now, not with the knowledge that Maggie would be all alone with _him_ for two days. Except, perhaps, he realized as he moved his tongue across the sore spot on the inside of his mouth, for the motel part. That had appeal. Hot shower, TV, room service. Two solid days of not being at Barnabas' beck and call.

He almost laughed as he put the car into gear and backed out of the parking spot, because the weird part was that he had money to afford it. Barnabas' money, to be exact.

When he stopped at the first, nice roadside motel he came to just inside the city limits, the manager eyed him askance and asked for payment up front. Willie realized too late that there probably was still some blood on his chin, not to mention that he had no jacket or luggage with him. But the motel looked clean, and he was tired down through to the bottom of his brain.

"Two nights, mister?" the manager asked pleasantly enough when he had Willie's money tucked safely away.

"Yeah, and is there any room service?"

"Cafe across the street delivers," came the useful reply. "Menus in the rooms."

By the time Willie got his keys, parked outside the room that was to be his, and had shut the door behind him, his headache was raging like a storm in his skull. He couldn't figure out whether it was from hunger or exhaustion, but the look of crisp sheets and the new blankets folded back invitingly won him over. Pausing only long enough to take off his shoes and crank up the heat, he crawled into bed. The welcome darkness of sleep overtook him before his head had even touched the pillow

***

As always, the difference between Bangor and Collinsport was like night and day. And it wasn't as if Bangor was a booming metropolis, it was just as sleepy a backwater as Collinsport. There were the same cobblestone streets downtown, the same type of old buildings, the same quaint New England section of town for the tourists. The main difference was the highway that ran past the town, which brought in more of whatever it was that kept Bangor hopping and had left Collinsport to languish with the coming and going of the tides.

Willie had thought he'd spend most of his time in his motel room, eating and sleeping and watching TV. But after 12 solid hours of sleep, undisturbed by the groans of the Old House or the click-click of Barnabas' shoes in the hallway, or, of late, the thought of Maggie Evans sleeping just down the hall from him, he felt like a new man. So he'd walked around town, and looked at things, feeling somewhat at loose ends without any particular errands to run. 

In one shop window he spotted a suede jacket that looked like it would be lot warmer than the cotton one he had at the Old House. But the price tag was more than he had on him at the moment, so he had to give it a miss. In another shop window, an antique store, he saw a three-legged corner chair that reminded him of the one Barnabas had described to him one night when he'd been in an expansive mood. The chair, though springs were coming through the worn seat, looked as though a good refurbishing would set it to rights, and he was tempted to buy it and take it back with him and fix it up. But again, the cost was prohibitive, and he had to leave the chair where it sat.

He walked around, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched to the chill air, until he got tired and then went into the Bangor version of a local diner and ordered something to eat.

When he was just sitting and waiting for his food to come, it was a lot more difficult to keep his worries about Maggie at bay. Collinsport was just an hour away from Bangor, but that hour made all the difference. His food came and he wondered what she was doing now, at this very minute. It was daylight and so Barnabas was tucked away in his coffin. She was probably sleeping too, which she did a lot of. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe Barnabas was right, and he was just in the way. And if that was true, then what would Barnabas do with him?

This thought made him stop mid-chew, mouth hanging open as he stared into blank space. He'd love to not be working for Barnabas any more, but if the vampire were to let Willie go, it would probably not be a simple matter of giving him his severance pay and his walking papers.

"Everything alright here?"

He looked up, blinking, and saw the waitress looking at him with round, concerned eyes. Her little checkered hat looked comical on her head, but her expression told him right away that she was not one to suffer fools gladly, and would be severely unpleasant if he were to disrupt her area of the restaurant.

"You're not going to have one of them seizures, are you?"

He shook his head and quickly chewed and swallowed the bite of hamburger that was in his mouth. "No," he said, "no, I just remembered I had something to do, that's all."

He looked back down at his plate and concentrated on his meal and hoped she would go away. Barnabas was very particular that he not attract undue attention. She slipped his bill under his plate and Willie got the message, loud and clear, that the sooner he left, the better. The blood was gone from his chin, he'd checked this morning, so he really had no idea what it was about him that made people want him gone so badly.

Leaving some money next to the plate, and his hamburger half uneaten, he stepped out into the street once more.

***

When he arrived back at the Old House, it wasn't quite sunset. On the drive, he'd occupied his mind with thoughts of the three-legged corner chair, so by the time he'd actually pulled into the drive, it was almost a shock to arrive. Of course, the Old House hadn't actually changed in the two days he'd been away, but he was overcome by the unnerving sensation that he'd been away forever. Or that he'd lived there forever, he wasn't sure which. The worst of it was the Old House almost seemed inviting.

Tiptoeing through the kitchen, he noted the layer of dust and cobwebs that had accumulated in his absence and the odd lack of any signs of activity. He didn't know what it meant, because the thought of Barnabas doing any cleaning up was out of the question. So then, where were any dirty dishes? He'd been away two days. Maggie. _For two days._ With his heart thumping, Willie raced up the stairs, bolting into Josette's room without even a knock.

She lay in a heap beneath the rumpled covers, and the only reason he knew right away that she wasn't dead was because of the sound she made when he came in. Almost a sound of protest, or a yielding sound. He was afraid to look at her, afraid of what he might find. Dragging his feet on the carpet, he swallowed and approached the bed slowly anyway. He could see one slender hand as it trailed out from beneath the covers, bruises circling around the narrow bones of her wrist. When he got to her side, he held her wrist for a moment, tightening his hand until he could just feel the faint thrum of her heartbeat. And her hand was slightly warm, not too cold, and he thought it was going to be alright. Except the water glass on her nightstand was bone dry, and her wrist felt awfully thin.

Pulling back the covers, he was astonished to see that she was actually wearing the veil in bed. It was all tangled up with her dark hair, hair which had not been brushed in days it seemed, and it covered her face. His hands were shaking as he pushed the veil and her hair back. For all its gauntness, her face looked unmarked, and her neck too, for which he was extremely grateful. Her flesh was the color of bitter eggshells, but other than that, and the large circles under her eyes, she seemed okay. With a careful tug, he pulled the veil from off her head and threw it to the ground and kicked it away with one foot. She seemed to breathe easier almost instantly.

With a sudden start, he realized that there was someone behind him, and he whirled around.

Barnabas.

Standing in the doorway as if he'd been there for some time. Watching Willie, watching as he'd tended to Maggie, and, what was worse, as he'd kicked the veil away. Barnabas set such a store by it, one of the ugliest things Willie had ever seen. But he didn't say anything, merely stood by the open door, his hand on the knob as if he were holding it open for Willie. Waiting for him to leave.

He slunk past the vampire, his whole body shrinking away as he went through the door, and the perpetual tight, anxious feel of his shoulders that had almost begun to melt away in Bangor returned. Going downstairs, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, he went into the kitchen. Stoking up the stove, which was ice cold, took his full concentration, and he stared at the crackling flames some moments before pushing himself to his feet. Soup would be the best thing, he decided, chicken soup with stars. Opening a can and dumping the contents into a pan took even more concentration, it seemed, than the fire had, and he found himself staring into the depths of the broth, waiting to see while it came to a boil.

And then the door to the kitchen opened.

"What are you doing?" demanded Barnabas, coming over to him.

"I'm making her something to eat," Willie replied, not looking at the vampire.

"She doesn't want to eat."

"You gotta make her eat, Barnabas," said Willie, letting out his breath in a rush of exasperation. "Otherwise she'll starve to death. An' you don't want that, do ya?"

He turned his head to look at Barnabas. "Might ruin your plans."

The instant that Barnabas' hand closed around his throat, he knew he shouldn't have said it. Shouldn't have said anything but instead just gone about his business taking care of their reluctant guest. As he was shoved backward, his hand knocked the spoon he'd been using to stir the soup with out of the hot broth. The spoon flew into the air, spilling hot soup on his shoes and on the floor. The hand tightened and Barnabas pulled him in close, as Willie's feet slipped in the fast-cooling liquid. 

"You tread dangerously near the precipice, Willie. It would only take one small shove and you would be dead."

Willie was so close to the vampire that he could see the veins in the vampire's eyes. They were so red they were almost black, and it was with a gagging horror that he realized he could smell blood on the vampire's breath.

"Do you wish that?"

For a second, Willie didn't realize what Barnabas was talking about, and his hands scrabbled for something solid, anything, to brace him against the tightness around his neck. What was a _precipice_? It sounded bad, it sounded like something he didn't want, so, as he struggled for breath and against the blackness, he shook his head no.

Barnabas released him with a shove. "Finish what you were doing," he snarled, eyes narrow, "and then tend to your chores. You have left much work undone."

Willie watched him go, hands going of their own accord to his throat as if to assure themselves that there was indeed air getting into his lungs. His heart was thumping very hard, and he closed his eyes. The instant he did so, he heard the soup boiling over and sizzle against the hot iron of the stove. At the very least, it gave him something else to concentrate on, something to look at besides the layers of dust. Or the cobwebs that laced the railings of the stairs as he carried the tray of soup up to Josette's room.

Maggie was almost awake when he opened the door and walked over to the bed. Her eyes were moving as if she were about to open them. He lifted the empty water glass and placed it on the tray, and then put the tray on the nightstand. Or tried to, and as he shoved the tray forward, he realized that the music box was there, tilting, almost going over the edge. Sloshing a great deal of soup as he did so, he lunged for the music box, catching it in his cupped hand just as it fell off the nightstand.

The close call left him with sweat dappling his forehead, and he stifled the urge to hurl the thing across the room. The precipice would be there for sure, as Barnabas gave him one huge, solid shove at it. Instead he walked over and put it on the dressing table, and then walked back to the bed.

"Maggie," he whispered, "Maggie, it's Willie. I brought you somethin' to eat."

Her eyes did open then, unfocused for a minute, and then, as she blinked, she almost seemed to smile as she saw him.

"Willie," she said.

"Here, let me prop you up on these pillows, so you can sit up."

He arranged the pillows behind her back, pulling the covers up over her lap as she sat back against them.

"Willie," she said again.

"Yeah, I brought you some soup," he told her.

"Soup?"

"Chicken with stars, your favorite."

"My favorite?" she asked him, brow wrinkling with confusion.

"Okay," he confessed, "it's my favorite, but it's all we got in the kitchen, so you're gonna hafta eat it, okay?"

Nodding slowly, she watched as he placed the bed tray over her lap.

"Somebody spilled," she said.

"Yeah, I spilled, but there's plenty left, so you eat it, okay? And crackers too, they're a little soggy, but most of them are okay."

Again, she nodded, and picked up the soup and began to eat. Why on earth Barnabas thought that she didn't want to eat was beyond him. He probably hadn't even tried to get her to eat anything, just let her sleep and drink what was left of her glass of water. For two days. Willie watched her eat, her hand a little shaky as she brought the spoon to her mouth. At least she could still eat on her own, that was something. A hammer began to pound behind his eyes, thumping hard with each beat of anger that had nowhere to go. Swallowing, he made himself calm down. Getting mad at Barnabas would only get him killed. And then what would become of her?

When about half the soup that had been in the bowl was gone, Maggie put the spoon down.

"I'm done now," she announced. She wiped her mouth with the napkin, and placed it on the tray.

Willie took the tray and placed it on the table in the center of the room. Then he grabbed the hairbrush from the vanity table and took it to her.

"You wanna brush your hair, doncha?"

One pale hand went up to touch the tangled mane that crept across her neck and over her shoulder. With her brown eyes on him, she nodded and reached out for the brush. As she took it, he turned away, and went over to the fireplace and laid in a fire. He blew on the coals, still hidden in the ashes, and added more coal. A bit of tinder, the last in the box, and soon he had a little fire going. When that was done, and the chimney drawing the smoke properly up, he turned back, pivoting on his heels. Maggie was still brushing her hair, holding the brown thickness in one hand, the other drawing the brush over it in long, careful strokes. It had been about three days since it had last been washed, but there was still enough shine in it for it to look like she was unraveling chestnut silk.

He heard her sigh as she did this several more times. And then her head tipped forward, and he realized she was almost falling asleep.

"Maggie?" he asked, getting up and moving toward her.

Her lashes lay against her cheeks, and her chin was almost resting on her chest. The brush now dangled from the fingers of one hand, and as he got close to the bed, it fell, and he grabbed it. The sudden movement startled her into wakefulness and as he crouched near the bed, he found he was looking up into her eyes, face framed by the newly brushed hair that spilled over her shoulders. As he stood up and reached over to move the hair out of her face again and tuck it behind one of her ears, he heard the creak of a step in the hall. Dancing back, he placed the brush on the vanity table in one, hurried motion. When the door opened, he was in the middle of the room, picking up the tray from the table.

"Did she eat?" Barnabas wanted to know.

Willie nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

"Then what are you doing loitering up here? You have work to do."

Again Willie nodded, and, hefting the tray in his hands, walked as smoothly as he could past Barnabas and out the door.

**Dr. Woodard's Theory**

"You may go now, Willie," said Barnabas, dismissing him.

Gratefully, Willie hurried up the stairs and to his room, trying to clear his head of confusion. But shutting the door behind him, between him and Barnabas, only increased it. He understood now what Barnabas had been up to with Dr. Woodard, that the vampire had been playing the role of concerned employer. Dr. Woodard was fully convinced, as was the rest of Collinwood, that Barnabas only had Willie's best interest at heart and was doing his best to see that Willie stuck to the straight and narrow and the paths of righteousness. And Willie was entirely sure that everyone's sympathies were with Barnabas on this, and how _difficult_ it must be for him to deal with the likes of Willie Loomis. Barnabas, of course, was a man of his word, and Willie was just a drifter that Barnabas, out of the goodness of his heart, had taken in. And while it could sometimes be amusing that the entire town of Collinsport was taken in by this charade, as it seemed to be when shopkeepers in town would fawn over him because of who he worked for, it wasn't now.

But it was Barnabas' about face that had really shaken him. It had been bad enough to sit in one of the red, wing backed chairs. This in itself was a little rebellion, albeit unknown, on the doctor's part. Early on, Barnabas had made no bones about what Willie's status allowed him to do. Occupying the furniture in the sitting room was not one of them. And then later, when Dr. Woodard had drunk the wine Willie had poured for him, and said that he understood, Willie felt the anger surge up in him, hot and fast.

"No, you don't understand," he'd growled, because the doctor was so close to discovering the truth that Willie just wanted it to be over. He was about to say more when Barnabas had sent him a glance of warning and a stiff, "That will be all, Willie."

After the doctor had gone and he'd discovered that Barnabas had switched the slides, he had been delirious with relief.

_You crafty old fox._

It was a con job that even Jason would have been proud of. He had the sudden rushed feeling that Barnabas was really looking out for both of them, instead of just for himself. And then he'd turned on Willie, denouncing any thoughtfulness on his part. Turned with the sudden viciousness of a snake.

Just as he was thinking how easy it would have been for Barnabas to lie to him, to have pretended that he was looking out for Willie, the door opened and Barnabas walked in. Willie backed up, startled, bumping the back of his legs against the edge of the bed. His hand went out to grab the brass headboard, palm folding around the cold metal.

"Your penchant for ill-advised behavior with visitors continues to irritate me," said Barnabas, not shutting the door behind him and leaving the blackness of the hall to seep into the room. His face was lined with a scowl, not unusual of late, and his eyes were narrowed.

"Wh-what?" Willie asked, stalling, not knowing what _penchant_ meant, but knowing that Barnabas was obviously still angry about the close call with Dr. Woodard. His success at pulling the wool over the doctor's eyes had been jeopardized, Willie knew, and Barnabas was not fond of close calls.

Barnabas came close, and Willie was unbalanced enough to almost fall back on the bed. But he tightened his hand on the headboard, and kept his feet.

"What exactly were you going to tell Dr. Woodard about me?"

Willie opened his mouth and blinked, wondering why Barnabas hadn't brought this up earlier. And he didn't remember what he'd been going to say to Dr. Woodard, because while he'd been intending to tell the doctor something, he wasn't entirely sure that it had been about Barnabas. That was the odd part. As near as he could recall he'd been about to impart his limited knowledge about vampires and blood, as if in an attempt to appeal to the doctor's medical background. Starting off by telling the doctor he'd found Barnabas in a coffin that he'd been locked in for 175 years had not seemed a good way to begin.

"N-no, I w-wasn't, it wasn't about you."

"Yes, you were," asserted Barnabas. "You were about to give away my secret." The vampire pushed himself forward, and Willie jerked back like a hand-shy hound.

"A manservant should be discreet," Barnabas reminded him. "A manservant shouldn't give away the secrets of his master."

"Well, a master should actually consider telling his manservant his plans," Willie shot out, before thinking.

The vampire raised his hand, and Willie, already off balance and expecting it, fell on the bed, and Barnabas' hand missed him. The vampire's eyes darkened with anger, and hoping to stave off another blow, Willie raised his arm in front of his face.

"You didn't tell me you were g-gonna switch the slides," he said quickly, scooting back on the bed. "I'd have gone with you on it, if you had."

Barnabas grabbed his arm and shoved it away with a small twist of his wrist. The scowl on the vampire's face had deepened as he glared at Willie, who had the almost uncontrollable urge to curl himself up into a small ball to let Barnabas vent his anger then and there just so it would be over with. Instead, he unclenched his hand from the brass bedstead, and moved gingerly backwards, toward the opposite edge of the bed from Barnabas. He'd just gotten one foot on the floor when Barnabas asked, "And where do you think you're going?"

His head shot up, and he landed both feet on the floor as quickly as he could, pushing himself upright. The blanket now had dirt from his shoes but that couldn't be helped. "No-no-nowhere."

"Come here."

"But Barnabas--"

"I said _come here_."

If he thought it was bad before, it was worse than that now.

Slowly, his feet weighing more than they possibly had a right to, he walked around the foot of the bed, only pausing for a second as if there might be a reprieve, when Barnabas pounced on him. Grabbing his upper arm in a fist so tight and cold that it cut off the circulation immediately and his lower arm lost all feeling. Then a second later he let Willie go, but Willie was under no illusion that Barnabas was finished. The vampire leaned in close, and Willie pulled back enough so that if he looked down all he could see was the vampire's scarlet tie. And not those eyes.

"You have this propensity for imagining that you can talk to whomever about whatever you please. I find it quite distressing that you continue to think this, even as I have advised you against it."

Willie could hardly think of it as advice, but he kept his mouth shut.

A hand grabbed his shirt collar and shook him.

"Look at me."

He swallowed and tried as best he could to take a slow, calm breath but his heart was beating, suddenly, double time, and his head felt light.

"I said _look at me_."

That voice, so toneless and level, could nonetheless shock him cold and his eyes flicked up of their own accord. Barnabas' eyes were dark and bits of lifeless coal.

"If I ever," said Barnabas carefully, "catch you on the verge of trying to betray me like that, or even hear that you were about to tell someone something about me, I will find you and I will punish you."

Willie shook his head quickly, keeping his eyes on Barnabas.

"Do I need to punish you now to make sure you understand me, fully and completely?"

He shook his head even more rapidly now, his knees turning to water at the mere thought of it. 

"What was that?"

"P-please--"

"Please what, Willie?" The hand on his shirt collar tightened, and Willie's breath hitched in his throat.

"Please, don't p-p-p-" To his horror, he couldn't finish saying it aloud, even at the risk of having Barnabas follow through with his threat.

"Don't what?" asked Barnabas, as if giving him another chance out of the goodness of his heart.

He would have to say it now, he knew. Either that or Barnabas would ask for his belt and Willie would spend the next week walking with a limp. He swallowed. "Please don't punish me," he said, barely above a whisper. "I won't do it anymore."

There was a space of heartbeats, and Willie counted them while he waited and watched the expression change in Barnabas' eyes. It went from anger to satisfaction in seconds, leaving Willie to blink away his astonishment. Barnabas let go of his shirt collar. 

"You'd better not," said Barnabas. "Now, would you care to explain to me what you're doing loitering up here when there's work to be done?

"I was--" Willie ducked his head and stepped sideways around Barnabas toward the open door. Even the meanest of chores would have been preferable to walking too close to the vampire. "I was just goin'."

He slunk out the door as quickly as he could, taking care that his shoes did not make any noise, somehow feeling that Barnabas would be too easily annoyed by it and haul Willie back to punish him anyway. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he whipped around, but Barnabas was nowhere to be seen. In the sitting room, an empty wine glass waited to be cleared away, and the candles needed tending to, and the daily growth of cobwebs needed to be swept away. He went into the kitchen to tie on his striped apron and it was only when he'd grabbed the broom and began going from room to room on the first floor, knocking away the webs along the ceiling and in the corners, did he feel he could begin to breathe more calmly. And, if he were lucky, Barnabas would leave him be all night.

**Maggie Lights Out**

He searched the grounds diligently, shivering in his shirtsleeves and apron, knowing that he would not find her there. When he'd gone earlier to Josette's room and opened the door and Maggie wasn't there, his first thought was that Barnabas was going to kill him. And on the heels of that, he knew that Barnabas wasn't going to kill him until he'd tortured him good and slow first. 

So he searched hard, even though he didn't want to find her. Maggie was tough, and if she could make it into town and back to the Evans' cottage she would be a whole lot better off. If she'd actually come down the stairs and taken her father's pipe, as Willie suspected she had, then the Evans' cottage was the most likely place she would go. Barnabas hadn't been too pleased that Sam Evans had actually been in the Old House, but his anger at that had been forgotten when Maggie had gone missing. And Barnabas would try again to find her and keep her, of course, a leopard could never change its spots, but if she could get away, then she would be well looked after and better guarded this time around.

He let himself in the Old House and took his apron off in the kitchen and then paced up and down the hall, waiting. When the front door finally opened and Barnabas came in, Willie was standing by the table in the hall and almost felt like he should hide behind it. As if that would be a secure place to hide from Barnabas' wrath. As if any place would be safe. But Barnabas did not approach him. Barely looked at him and went instead to sit in one of the wing backed chairs in the front room.

"Why is this fire not lit?" demanded Barnabas, as if it were an ordinary evening. "And the candles, Willie, what's the matter with you?"

Almost on tiptoe, Willie crept into the sitting room. He got the matches from the mantle and lit all the candles in the room. When he finally looked at the vampire, Barnabas had a book open in his hands and was apparently reading it.

"Uh," he started, almost afraid to breathe. "Did you find her?"

"Yes, I found her," Barnabas answered tonelessly.

Willie's eyes flicked around the room, knowing quite clearly that Barnabas had come in alone.

"Where is she?"

"I locked her in the coffin in the secret room."

"What?" Willie moved forward in a rush, as if to snatch the book out of Barnabas' hands. His body stopped short of this, but his hands reached out. "What do you mean, Barnabas? In the coffin?"

The vampire nodded slowly, his eyes still on the book in his hands.

Willie felt the weight of the coffin lid, as if it were he in that dark box, in that silent, cold room. His stomach plummeted. He could so easily imagine what it was like to be locked in that coffin, the darkness surrounding you, the dark and moldy silk interior smothering you. And the lock, unbudging, the lid heavy as lead. And any sounds you made would be absorbed into the wood, until the wood and silk got so heavy that your screams smothered you alive.

"But why, Barnabas, why? Why put her in there, huh?"

Finally, Barnabas' dark eyes flicked up, looking at Willie as if studying his features. "It's your fault she's in there, Willie."

"Huh? Why is it my fault?" Confusion flooded him from all directions.

"You know very well why, Willie," said Barnabas. "Now suppose you tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me why I'm punishing Maggie."

This was some odd sort of punishment in itself, and Barnabas was obviously aware of that fact. Willie moved back and Barnabas looked at him, the very slight smile on his face telling Willie that Barnabas was enjoying this.

"Tell me," Barnabas insisted.

"B-because she ran away."

"And why did she run away?"

"She, well, she wanted to go home." His voice trailed off, uncertain.

"No, Willie that is not the answer at all. Try again."

They both knew what the answer was; Barnabas, he realized, just wanted to hear him say it.

"She ran away because, because I left the door unlocked and didn't keep enough of a close watch on her." He ducked his head and stared at the tips of his shoes.

"That is correct Willie."

"But why--" he stopped to gather his courage. "Why did you lock her in the coffin, Barnabas, why?"

At this point Barnabas gave up all pretense of reading. He got up from his chair and put the book on the table, and as he rose, he seemed to grow larger and taller. Willie shrank against the mantle, realizing suddenly that there was no room to run. Barnabas' eyes were steel diamonds.

"Because you, Willie, seem to take it personally when I raise a hand against her, quite personally indeed. So with physical punishment out of the question, I had to find an alternative way of teaching her a lesson. She'll not run away again soon, I assure you."

_She isn't going to be running away again soon because she's going to go stark raving mad._

He bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying this aloud, and tried instead to beg Barnabas to be merciful.

"But Barnabas--"

"Don't worry about her too much," Barnabas interrupted, smirking. "Imagine how more spacious her room will seem after the confines of the coffin."

"But couldn't you--" he started and then stopped, suddenly realizing what he was about to say.

"Punish you instead?" finished Barnabas. He shook his head, smiling. "Oh no, that's far too easy. No, it's worse for you to stand by and watch, isn't it? Interesting."

Willie didn't know how it could be that interesting, and he didn't really know if it was true. Or if he actually could have willingly allowed himself to be placed, alive, in a coffin. Especially after Barnabas' original threat of burying him alive. Or if he could have borne it, even for a moment without going mad himself. His head was swimming as Barnabas stepped away.

"Oh, and Willie?"

He looked up. Barnabas stood in the center of the room, hands linked behind his back.

"Don't let her out before sunset tomorrow. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Barnabas."

"She must undergo the full weight of her punishment and understand the full complexity of her situation."

Willie was standing at the fire's edge, and yet the heat of the flames did not reach him.

"Now go away," said Barnabas, "and leave me be."

"B-"

"I said get out!"

Willie ducked out of the room as fast as he could. He walked to the kitchen and opened the door, hardly feeling the knob beneath his hands, the smell of stale food and woodrot hitting his senses all at once. Sitting down hard in a chair and burying his head in his hands, he knew that he would not be able to sleep. Not while Maggie was locked in her tiny prison; his mind, for thinking of it, would not let go of the image of her in there. The air, tight and dry, and diminishing with every breath. Padded silk all around. The hardness above her head, only inches away.

He would let her go at sunrise, he decided, though letting her out early was only going to make himself feel better, he knew that. To hell with Barnabas. He would never find out, and Maggie would certainly not be able to tell the vampire how long she'd been in there. And that she was in there at all _was_ his fault. Barnabas was right about that. But he would have to wait until sunrise, till Barnabas was asleep himself, in his own coffin.

It occurred to him, as he lifted his head and opened his eyes, that she had actually managed to run away. Somehow, even being under Barnabas' vampire power, she'd managed it. Walked right out of the Old House, headed for parts unknown, under her own power. Willie suspected that she'd been going home, to her Pop, but Barnabas wasn't telling, and Willie wasn't about to ask. But she'd done it. Run away. Left without permission. It had not only taken guts, it had taken something much more. Something Maggie had inside of her, some inner strength that made her fight the vampire. The way she fought Barnabas the first night he'd brought her here. Or the night Sam Evans had come over. She'd fought the vampire then, or at least she'd tried.

He wondered if he could ever be that strong. Or if he could take off the way she'd done. And how far he'd get. Not very, knowing Barnabas.

Morning was a long time coming. He puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up, and waited and listened for the sound of Barnabas going to the cellar. At one point, he sat in a chair and laid his head in his arms on the table, closing his eyes against the exhaustion he felt. Though his head felt like lead on his shoulders and his eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper, he couldn't hardly relax, let alone fall asleep. 

When finally he heard Barnabas' step on the stair and the creak of the door to the cellar closing behind him, Willie could breathe. He gave it another ten minutes, until the sun was streaming through the trees outside. Then he grabbed his jacket and the keys from their hook and was gunning the engine down the lane as fast as he could push it.

***

The graveyard had that early morning air, damp and utterly still, a place where nothing stirred, save himself. He barely felt the cold iron as he opened the door to the mausoleum, and pulled on the ring in the lion's mouth. Or felt the weight of the lid as he pried it off her.

"Josette," he whispered, "Josette, it's Willie." He bent closer to her. "Can you hear me? I've come for ya."

"Willie," she said, her voice thick, as if she'd been screaming long and hard.

"Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am?"

"Willie," she said again.

"That's right, now, I've come to getcha. There's nothing to be afraid of. Now you just do what I tell you to do. You understand?"

She nodded silently, her hair whispering against the padded silk.

Fear was the last thing, apparently, that Maggie was feeling. As he circled his arms around her back and helped her sit up straight, she seemed oblivious to everything. Her arms were bare to the morning damp, and the dew building up on the inside of the coffin had given the mold growing there something to flourish on. There was a touch of niter sliding in a triangle pattern in the corner of the coffin lid near her head. There was even some mold in her hair, but she noticed none of that. There was no recognition in her eyes; though they were open and she was looking directly at him, she wasn't seeing him at all.

He half-lifted, half-pulled her out of the coffin, letting the lid slam with a satisfying bang when she was well out of the way. His arms circled around her, feeling the dampness of the gown through his jacket and shirtsleeves. Touching her face was like touching a sculpted bit of marble.

"Can you walk, sweetheart?" he asked, whispering.

"Pop?"

He jerked back at this, knowing he couldn't pretend this time. "No, I'm not your Pop, it's Willie. Don't you remember? It's Willie Loomis."

Her brown furrowed a fraction and she ducked her chin to her chest as if thinking. "Willie," she said.

"Yeah," he agreed, keeping his voice low. "Now I want you to come with me. We'll go someplace dry, get you out of these things."

This was all true, after all, the Old House was drier than a tomb, though not by much. And he would get her out of the wet clothes she had on, even if only to put her back into them when he'd cleaned and dried them.

Which left him with the sudden question of whether or not he was actually going to take her back there. Surely they had hours till sunset, hours to get away. The car was powerful and full of gas; they could get miles from Collinwood before needing to stop.

"C'mon, Maggie, time to go."

With an arm around her waist, he helped her up the short steps out of the tomb and then out of the mausoleum. But she tripped and tumbled to the ground as soon as her feet, bare and bruised, hit the rough gravel path of the graveyard. He wanted to slap himself for not having thought of this. She must have walked miles to get her feet in that condition, and he winced as he saw the soles almost black and cut through with red streaks. There was no help for it then. 

Bending over, he slid his arms under her legs and then under her shoulders. She probably weighed much less than when he first met her, but was still heavy enough so that lifting her as a dead weight took everything he had. Muscles straining, he leaned back, using his legs as a lever, and then shifted her in his arms, standing as fast as he could. It was easier to carry her once she was in his arms proper, her head lolling against his shoulder as he rushed toward the car.

He was almost sweating by the time he got there, the sun streaming through the trees, and he placed her carefully in the passenger side and then raced around and got in the car.

Was he going to do it then? An excitement rose in him, a desperate excitement bubbling in his stomach. 

_Yes_.

He was going to try.

Driving past the town before it was awake, he took the coastal road that led south. South meant towns and other people, which he didn't quite think he wanted to run into, as Maggie in an old-fashioned gown and practically unconscious would be somewhat hard to explain. But going south also meant there would be more places to hide. Boston, for a start. Barnabas would never find them there.

Beside him, Maggie had pushed close. He had the heater going full blast to warm them both, but she had started shivering. She pushed even closer till her head was resting in the hollow of his shoulder, hair streaming down over his chest. So close to his face she was, and he could smell the mold from the coffin and the dust from the graveyard all over her. Laying an arm around her shoulders, he drew her in tight, pressing her to him.

"Boston, Maggie," he told her, whispering into her hair. "We'll be safe in Boston."

It was a moment that he wished he could pretend was something else, something else entirely. Instead of them trying to escape, instead of Maggie in falling-apart lace and smelling like death, instead of him sweating because he'd just carried her though a graveyard, he wanted a Sunday drive. Perhaps they'd just had a picnic together, and Maggie, tired from being in the sun, had fallen asleep against him. And maybe instead of the sun just coming up, it was just going down, and they were headed home after their outing. They would have a late supper, and then...

Maggie shifted against him, one of her arms slipping behind his back, the other falling across his thigh. He glanced down. Her forearm was laddered with bruises, and the one on her wrist looked like it went all the way around. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and he looked up in time to avoid running over a figure in the road. As he turned the wheel hard to the right, he saw that it was Barnabas, standing there in his caped coat, cane held tightly in one hand. As he slammed on the brakes, the dust obscured the figure, and Maggie slid out of his arms. When he'd come to a full stop, he looked back. But except for the dust, settling slowly in the damp air, there was no one. 

Maggie whimpered, and he took his hands off the wheel to gather her up next to him again. A fog was building, and he wondered if it was because they were so close to the sea. 

"Willie?" whispered Maggie.

"What?" he asked, distracted by the fog.

"Take me home, Willie."

"I'm trying, I'm trying."

But he was scared, somehow, and his heart was still racing. Obviously, it had just been his imagination, but Barnabas' face had been so full of rage, so ready to kill Willie and tear Maggie to pieces. He swallowed, closing his eyes for a second to banish the image.

"Okay, Maggie," he breathed, "let's try it again."

The car's engine hummed to life as he stepped on the gas and pulled out into the road. The tires whispered against the pavement as he sped along, going fast enough so that the fence posts on the side of the road were only brown blurs. But the fog was growing, even though the sun was shining, and he put the wipers on to help clear the windshield. It didn't really seem to help, but he didn't know what else to do. Turning on the headlights didn't cut the fog at all, which danced and turned as the car pushed through it.

And then he became sure he was going to go off the edge of a cliff. He was driving along the edge of the ocean, after all, and Maine was known for its dramatic coastline. The fog had cut visibility of the road off to its very edge, and as he drove, he realized he couldn't see any further than the rim of the hood. He could see nothing.

He let the car slow down to a stop, and gently pressed on the brakes. Except for the quiet hum of the engine as it ticked and cooled, it was perfectly silent. The fog was a curtain around the car, a thick grey fence. And beyond the fence, he could see a shape. The silhouette of a man. Wearing a caped coat. It was impossible and yet it was there.

And then he heard it. The beating of the vampire's heart.

He shot the automatic gear in reverse and stepped on the gas so hard that the shriek of rubber told him he'd just left an inch of tire on the pavement. And over that, the roaring of the ocean, as if it were only inches away. And the heartbeat, like a drum right next to his head. Inside his head. Pounding.

He brought the car to a sudden halt, and felt Maggie slide away on the leather bench seat as he clamped his hands over his ears. It wouldn't help, he knew that, but if he didn't then his head was going to explode, he knew that too. The pounding grew louder and louder until he had to open the car door and stumble to his knees beside it. Grasping at straws, he pushed himself to his feet, hands still clutching his head, and tried to run from the fog, tried to find his way through it. But as hard as he tried, as far as he ran, he always ended up at the car, which sat in the fog, doors open, engine still running.

A hundred times he tried this, always ending up by the open door, seeing the lace of Maggie's gown as it was hung up on the head rest on the passenger side. Of Maggie he could see nothing; she was slumped down on the seat. He was out of breath, frozen to the bone, and so tired, he could barely stand. And Maggie, the cold and fog were working their way into the open car, and he had the sudden awareness that the fog might kill her.

There was no help for it then. He couldn't get away this time, and to keep trying would certainly kill Maggie. There had to be another way, but this way wasn't it. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his head, and walked toward the car deliberately. He wasn't at all surprised when the pounding almost immediately started to fade. When he got in the car and settled Maggie against him, the fog even began to break away, and he could see that the road that he was on, though definitely coastal, had about 50 yards between it and the cliff's edge. He turned the wheel around and headed back toward Collinsport. And the Old House.

Against him, Maggie murmured something under her breath, and he didn't bend to hear it. Didn't matter anyway.

**Maggie in the Dark**

Willie could only watch, helpless and frozen, as Barnabas hauled Maggie out of the room, but instead of taking her up the stairs, the vampire dragged her deeper into the cellar. Into a part of the house Willie had not yet explored. He heard a murmur of voices, and a clang, and then he heard Maggie start screaming.

Rushing toward the sound, he bumped into Barnabas, who grabbed him and yanked him in the exact opposite direction from where he wanted to go. Up the stairs, driving him, to the landing in the kitchen. With Maggie's screams, muffled by the house itself, but clear and sharp in his mind.

"B-Barnabas, wh-wh--" he started, but his voice broke halfway, and he stopped to get his breath. Stepped toward the stairs, as if drawn to the sound of Maggie's voice.

Barnabas pushed him away from the door and stepped in front of it. Drawing himself to his full, imposing height, he titled his head back so that his eyes were almost closed as he looked down at Willie.

"She is being punished," said the vampire.

"Bu-but where did you take her, Barnabas?" he managed, resisting the impulse to clap his hands over his ears. The sound was what he'd hoped to avoid before, when Barnabas had been planning to make a Josette bride out of Maggie Evans, and he'd been leaving the house. And as before, the sound of her voice, the anguish lacing the sound, had drawn him to it. All unbidden and unable to do anything.

"There is a small cell suitable for this purpose," said Barnabas, something grim and edgy in his voice. "My family has used it for over 100 years."

"A cell?" he asked, his mind imagining all too easily the darkness of the cellar sealed off by bars. And Maggie down there, all alone. Except for the sounds of wailing, which now managed to float up the stairs.

"I locked her in there," Barnabas explained, perfectly reasonable, "to give her plenty of time to think upon the error of her ways."

"Bu-- sh-she--" The words left him as soon as he opened his mouth. The only error Maggie had committed was of speaking the truth. He'd tried to tell her over and over to pretend, to make believe, and find another way out of Barnabas' trap. Be Josette, he'd told her. But that Maggie could not, or would, not do. Lying was not part of her makeup, and neither was pretending she was someone she was not. She would rather die as Maggie Evans than live as someone else's idea of who she should be.

"You can't leave her down there, Barnabas, you can't!"

"I can and I will."

"But the dark, it's dark down there." He could feel himself starting to shake. The thought of Maggie all alone in the dark felt as bad, if not worse, than being down there himself. "Let me at least bring her some light, a candle, at least."

"No." Barnabas turned away, and Willie realized that the sounds of wailing had dimmed to sobs, low pitched and thrumming in his ears.

"Wait, Barnabas, wait."

Astonished, Barnabas paused, dark eyes appraising him. Waiting.

"She's your Josette, right?"

The dark eyes flickered. "Yes."

"You said you loved her, that you wanted her to be your bride, that she was a lady, the most feminine woman you'd ever known," he said, speaking quickly, mouth going dry, knowing that his window of opportunity was very narrow. "An' I know she's not behaving the way you want her to."

"She's being entirely too willful and disobedient," agreed Barnabas. "And she needs to be punished."

Willie nodded, swallowing, hating himself for agreeing, but knowing that there was no fighting Barnabas on that point. "Okay, Barnabas, I understand. But," he licked his lips, phrasing his next words carefully, "it's dark down there. Hasn't she been in the dark long enough?"

"What do you mean?" Barnabas asked, looking somewhat puzzled.

"Josette," said Willie, looking him in the eyes. "You want to leave Josette in the dark like that?"

Something moved, then, in Barnabas' face, moving in to glimmer there, settling in his expression and lighting his eyes. Willie'd seen it for a fraction of a second earlier, before in the basement, when he'd stopped the vampire from killing Maggie outright and now it was here again. Tender, so tender, like the first uncurling of a willow tree in the growing warmth of spring. Love was there, in Barnabas' eyes, so human, for his beloved Josette.

A second after it appeared, a shutter came over Barnabas' face, cutting off the gentleness with a sharp, angry blade. 

It was painful to watch, and Willie had to swallow again, and made himself keep his eyes on the vampire. "Huh, Barnabas?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Barnabas, as if Willie had only just gotten his attention.

"Can I take some candles down to her, so she doesn't have to sit in the dark anymore? And some blankets, and things?" he added, figuring it was best to clear this up now, while the vampire was in a listening mood.

Barnabas nodded, and turned away once more, as if his attention were drawn to more important things than a recalcitrant houseguest and the question of her creature comforts. "Yes, that would be suitable. But she should experience only the meanest level of luxury, do you understand? Only one candle a day."

He nodded, and watched as Barnabas left the kitchen for the front of the house. There were no sounds from the basement now. Maggie had gone silent, though the force of her anguish still rattled him. Before, when she'd been only half aware of who she was, it'd been easy to swallow the idea of keeping her prisoner. She hadn't seemed like one, after all. Most prisoners weren't asked to stay in a lovely room, and weren't showered with expensive presents and jewels. But a golden cage, he supposed, was still a cage, in the end. And though it had been somewhat easy for him to keep her in that room, it had been an unbearable situation for Maggie.

And now, now it was unbearable for him; beyond anything else, he knew what it was like to be locked in a cage. A cage that made no effort of pretense at being anything else. And likewise Maggie, being Maggie, now that she knew who she was, would make no pretense of being Josette. Not even to save herself. Her last attempt at pretending to be Josette, when she'd tried to bribe him into letting her go with the necklace Barnabas had given her, had failed miserably. Even he'd been able to see through her charade, his vision fueled by his anger when he realized that she was willing, after all he'd done for her, to escape on her own and leave him behind to face Barnabas' wrath. Alone. She'd said, then, that the two of them could leave together, but he knew, in his heart, that she would just as soon leave him behind. As bait.

Still, in spite of this, in spite of her willingness to betray him, he knew he was not going to be able to go along with this part of Barnabas' plan very well. At least not as well as he'd been able to go along with it thus far, which wasn't saying very much. But there was passive acceptance, he realized, and then there was active disobedience. And where he was between the two, he didn't quite know. 

Barnabas, of course, expected nothing less than perfect obedience, which Maggie was never going to give him. And which he, all along, had been only pretending to give, dreading the moment when Barnabas found out that his nodding agreement was nothing more than a pretense. A pretense based on fear, his fear of what Barnabas _could_ do, rather than anything the vampire actually had done. Maggie could spit into the wind, as she seemed fond of doing; he could not. Maggie had no idea how bad it could be.

**The Ring Incident**

He dusted his hands off, feeling the small rise of power inside of him. 

"I'll tell my Aunt Elizabeth!" shrieked David through the doors, his voice loud in spite of the solid oak that separated them.

"You be my guest," said Willie to himself with some satisfaction.

"What was that all about?"

The hairs on the back of Willie's neck jumped straight up. He spun around to see Barnabas there, just at the foot of the stairs, an expectant look on his face.

"Was that young David?"

"Uh, uh, just--" he trailed off, and then pointed to the door with his thumb. "H-had to get rid of him. He wouldn't leave. So I, uh, I threw him out."

"Threw?" Barnabas' eyebrows shot into his hairline. "You threw him out. Literally?"

"Yeah, uh," he took a deep breath, "I tried and I tried, Barnabas, honest I did. I told him to go, and then I grabbed his arm and tried to push him out, but he just wouldn't do it."

Barnabas was still listening, and Willie didn't know if this was good or bad.

"So I picked him up, and tossed him out the door." His held-in breath left him in a rush.

"You tossed him."

"Uh-huh."

"Out the door."

"Uh-huh."

"Did he land on his feet?"

Willie shook his head at the strange question. "I-I don't think so, but I didn't stop to check. I slammed and locked the door as quick as I could."

"You know what I've told you about being rude to houseguests."

The sweat broke out on his upper lip just then. "Yeah, I know. But Barnabas," said Willie, brows knitting together, "that kid just keeps coming around and coming around. I think he even came in through the front window this time. He broke in here!"

There was a sparkle in Barnabas' eyes, and Willie realized the irony of what he'd just said. 

"For crying out loud, Barnabas, he's been told a million times that you live here now, he's been scolded and punished and nothing seems to stop him. What if he were to wander downstairs and find _her_ there? What would you have to do to him then, to stop him from telling what he knows?"

"I should punish you for disobeying me like that," said Barnabas, the sparkle suddenly gone from his eyes.

Willie shook his head. "Nope, Barnabas, you can't, because he was going for those stairs, and if I hadn't tossed him out like I did, there's no telling how far he might have gotten. I did what I had to do." He nodded firmly to emphasize this.

A calm, stony glare appraised him, and Willie realized that he was right, and that Barnabas knew he was right. David was as curious as a cat, and Willie's dire actions had saved Barnabas from either sheer ruin of his plans or having to do away with his young cousin. He liked the feeling of being right, but hid his smile, knowing that Barnabas would not like having it shoved in his face.

"Alright," said Barnabas, finally, walking over to get his coat from the rack. "But now I must go and apologize to my cousins. As it is not something I enjoy doing and do not expect to do on your behalf ever again, in future I suggest that you find a tamer way of dealing with young children who do not, perhaps, know what is best for them."

"Sure, Barnabas," said Willie, "anything you say."

When the door slammed behind the other man, Willie allowed himself a smile and a small laugh as he went to the coat rack to get his own jacket. Within half an hour, he'd be far happier and far richer, and Barnabas would never, ever find out.

***

Talking with Jason had always been tiring, but recently it was becoming exhausting. It was as if Jason sensed that he was losing control of everything, especially Willie, and was doubling his frenetic efforts to maintain. He'd been hyper vigilant, alert to every disassembly on Willie's part, every slight, every nuance. Willie's visit with him at the Blue Whale had been anything but relaxing. He drove home to the Old House, shoulders slumped, energy gone. And on top of that, the lost ring nagged at him. The half an hour searching at the pawnbrokers and in his car had unearthed no results. No, he'd lost the ring between the Old House and town, and his dream of easy money to stash away was equally lost.

He arrived at the Old House to find every candle blazing from the foyer to the sitting room. He'd not lit them before he'd left, so Barnabas must have done it, for reasons yet unknown. Hanging up his jacket automatically on the coat rack by the door, he walked into the sitting room to find Barnabas in the wing backed chair nearest to the window. The blazing lights carved his face into marble, and he sat implacably, elbows resting on the arms, hands folded into a steeple.

"What's the matter, Barnabas?"

"I've something to show you," came the steady reply. 

"What?" It was almost as bright as day in that room, which was unusual by itself, but the way Barnabas was staring at him was making him even more nervous.

"Come here, Willie."

His feet carried him closer to where Barnabas sat, but the tone in the other man's voice made him long to be elsewhere. He stopped when he was just shy of the little side table. Stomach flutters began to compete with the beating of his heart.

Barnabas took one of his hands and lowered it in the shape of a fist over the table top. He opened his fist and with a ping, something fell on the smooth, lacquered surface. Taking his hand away, rather like a magician presenting the result of his trick, he revealed Maggie Evans' ring. 

In that second, Willie knew exactly what was up. There was still yet a chance of getting out of this one, for had he not talked his way out of trouble earlier, just hours ago? He decided to play dumb.

"What's that, Barnabas?" he asked, with what he hoped was just the right amount of curiosity and disinterest.

"You know very well what it is."

Of course he knew, but he couldn't admit that he knew, not at this stage in the game. 

"It looks like a ring," he said, casually, not swallowing. 

Barnabas looked up at him with dark, hooded eyes. "David tells me that it fell out of your shirt pocket when you threw him out of the house earlier this evening."

He was a dead man. Deader than the soul that lived behind the vampire's eyes. The blood left his head in a rush, till he felt he was going to pass out. But he was going to walk away, walk away as fast as he could so that he could say to his fellow souls in hell, _I was as far as the door before he got me._

He made it as far as the foyer.

A large hand clamped like a vise on his upper arm and stopped him. Turned him around till he was facing the vampire.

"Go ahead," he muttered, "get it over with."

There was a long pause before Barnabas, in an amused voice, asked, "And what is it you think you deserve? What is it that you have done?"

Willie dropped his head, mouth working wordlessly before he could get his reply out. "I-I took the ring from the girl."

"And why did you take the ring?" Still the tone was amused, the words mocking.

"Sh-she gave it to me, as a gift."

"And why did she give it to you?"

The hand let go of him at that point, and he looked up. Barnabas' face was now impassive and still, but Willie didn't for one second think that he had even as much as a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of this in one piece. Barnabas was better at playing cat and mouse than anyone he knew, including Jason. Still, he knew he had to think about his answer carefully. Even a snowball could make it out of hell, if the escape route was cold enough.

"She said that I been k-kind to her and that..."

"And?"

"And that-that she thought she could forget who she was if she didn't have it around to remind her."

"Very good," said Barnabas, nodding. "But what do you think her real reason was for giving you the ring?"

Willie shrugged. "B-because, because, I dunno."

"Do you think she gave it to you because you are her friend?" Barnabas' voice was entirely reasonable.

Actually, he had thought that, at least in one part of his mind. That they were friends, and that she liked him. The other part of his brain had promptly started planning what to do with all of the money he would make selling it.

"I see from your ready reply, Willie, that you haven't the slightest idea what she meant by her oh-so generous gift."

He shrugged again.

"Read the inscription," said Barnabas, handing him the ring.

Willie now understood the need for the mass of candlelight, as the engraved printing was very small. 

"To Maggie from her loving father, Sam."

He went cold all over. Now he _was_ a dead man.

Barnabas plucked the ring from his nerveless fingers and walked back into the sitting room to put it back on the table. Willie half followed him and didn't dare look at it, but it was still there, sparkling in the candlelight, as if speaking of the riches it would bear.

"With your stupidity," said Barnabas holding out his hand, "and your greed, you might have inadvertently betrayed me, Willie."

"But I wasn't going to betray you, that wasn't what I meant at all!" He backed up, moving just out of reach. "It was a gift!" The injustice of it stung badly.

"You accept gifts only when I say you may," replied Barnabas, not moving any closer. He knew, and Willie knew, that he didn't really need to. "Now I suggest that you hand me your belt without any more fuss, before this turns into something far more severe than your actions warrant."

"But it's mine."

Barnabas just shook his head slightly. "It used to belong to a girl by the name of Maggie Evans. But since she no longer exists, it's nobody's now. Therefore, as master of this house, I claim it as mine." He picked it up and held it to the light before putting it in his breast pocket. "It belongs to me."

As the ring disappeared into the blackness of Barnabas' suit jacket, the blood started to pound behind Willie's eyes. Tucking his chin down, he balled his fists and rushed at Barnabas, a low growl building in his chest. "It's MINE."

With one twist of his wrist, the vampire pushed him off balance, and Willie tripped on his own feet, and crashed to the floor. The small table, where so late sat the ring, clattered to the stones, one of the legs snapping off. He lay there panting for a second, and then looked up. Tried to roll away as Barnabas reached for him, but it took only seconds before Barnabas had freed the belt from the loops of Willie's pants.

"You're making this far more difficult than it needs to be, Willie," said Barnabas sharply, standing over him with the belt dangling from one hand.

Willie had never had anything as beautiful as that ring, not legitimately anyway, and he couldn't believe that Maggie had given it to him only to trick him. Sure she was giving it to him to try and free herself, he could understand that, but she had also meant it when she said that she wanted him to have it. He knew she did.

"It doesn't matter what you say," he shouted up at Barnabas, grabbing the end of the belt in an attempt to pull it out of the other man's hands, "I know she wanted me to have it."

Barnabas pulled back, snapping the belt from Willie's hand, raising an instant welt across his palm. "I will have no more disobedience in my house," said Barnabas, with thunder in his voice.

As he lifted the belt, reaching back very high with his arm, there was a small flash of light as the ring fell from his pocket. Willie scrambled for it, his fist closing over it the second before Barnabas' well-polished shoe landed on his wrist. The hard leather sole ground into the tendons there, and then let up slightly.

"Drop it, Willie."

"It's mine," replied Willie, pulling his outstretched arm inward. Or tried to, as the weight of Barnabas' whole body pressed down again, mashing his wrist into the carpet.

"I suggest you drop it right now," snapped Barnabas, his short-fused patience long since burnt out. "Otherwise you'll have one less hand with which to do your chores."

The ring was a cool weight inside of his palm. It was so finely made that it didn't even hurt when it cut into his skin. There were two tiny diamonds in the setting, one on each side, and in the center, a square cut sapphire. A birthstone, perhaps, or maybe just Maggie's favorite stone. Her father, who loved her more than anything, had given it to her. And she had given it to him. It was _his_.

Barnabas was practically standing on his wrist now, forcibly moving his foot back and forth. Something popped along the back of his hand, pain shooting up into his elbow. And, as if of its own free will, his fist opened up. The ring fell out, brightly sparkling against the dust of the carpet. The vampire, keeping one foot on Willie, bent over and snapped it up.

Then Barnabas finally lifted his foot, and Willie curled up on his side on the carpet, cradling his wrist against his chest. It was on fire now, screaming with ripped tendons and whatever else had gotten crunched. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't. He sunk his teeth into his lower lip and ducked his chin to his chest. He felt Barnabas pull his shirt tails up and didn't even move.

"It was mine," he muttered.

"Correct," said Barnabas, "it _was_ yours. And now it's not."

The belt landed fiercely along the bare skin of his ribs. The next blow flicked around his front and the tail end of it caught his wounded wrist. The white heat of it knocked his eyes back in his head and he thought he was going to pass out right there. Instead, under the hail of leather, he shifted to his front, tucking his wrist beneath him, shielding it as best he could. Barnabas, fortified by his anger, was cruel with the belt, cutting the leather into his flesh, and leaving welts that sang long after the belt had left him. He realized he was whimpering, deep in his throat, and he tried to swallow against this, but this only turned the whimpers into short, deep moans. Little grunts of pain that he could hear, and that Barnabas could surely hear too. Sounds that went on, even after Barnabas had stopped. The belt landed like a warm snake around his ears.

"Go to your room, Willie. And remember, everything in this house is mine. Including you. You would do well to remember that."

He tried to move, to get up, and to catch the belt as it fell to the floor, and failed at both. His breath came hard in his throat. Tensing, he expected at any moment to feel the pointed edge of Barnabas' shoe against his ribs, but there was nothing. Rising cautiously to his knees, he saw that Barnabas was simply standing there, watching him, hands folded across his front. He picked up his belt and wanted suddenly to take it and fling it at Barnabas, but he didn't dare. The vampire had that look in his eye, the Thing was there, dark and boiling. Barnabas was mad as hell still, and Willie knew that one wrong move from him would bring about Barnabas' final solution to Willie's rebellious nature.

He pushed himself to his feet and put the belt back on, feeling Barnabas watching and waiting, those dark eyes missing nothing. He wiped at the dampness along his forehead with the back of his good hand and dried it on his pants leg. His legs were shaking as badly as if he'd been running and had suddenly stopped.

"D-does she know that you have it?"

Barnabas looked surprised, as if at Willie's audacity to speak. "Yes, indeed she does. And very upset too, when I wouldn't give it back to her. Perhaps," Barnabas mused, "she regretted giving it to you in the first place."

Willie knew that this was not so, knew it in the depths of his heart. But what pained him most of all, worse than Barnabas' jabs or the hot welts from the belt, was the thought of Maggie. Trapped in that cell, with bars on the door and cobwebs hanging like lace from the ceiling. How overjoyed she must have been, knowing that Willie would take the ring and sell it, only to wait hours and hours, and then to have Barnabas come and, in his nasty way, fling the entire, hopeless plan right back in her face.

"She was only sorry that I dropped it," he said, low.

"What did you just say?"

Willie looked up, realizing that he'd spoken it aloud, instead of to himself, like he'd thought. "Nothin'," he said, quickly, "I didn't say nothin'."

"I should certainly hope not. Now," he motioned with his hand as if brushing away a fly, "get out of my sight before I regret letting you live."

**After the Ring**

It was his ability to fantasize that was going to save him. His ability to pretend that Maggie was tidily tucked away in Josette's lovely green and gray room, with a merry bluewhite coal fire blazing and all the candles lit. That the tray he carried contained some elegant meal and that he would soon climb the stairs and enter her room to find her sitting on the settee, close to the fire, perhaps reading a book. Or perhaps sitting at the vanity table, which he'd refinished with his own hands, brushing her long chestnut hair. All of this was the fantasy he liked best, that she'd been obedient and good and knew how to be Josette, in the best of ways, without dissent or rebellion or spitting into the wind. 

This image carried him through the day. Was with him while he did his chores around the Old House, even while he ran errands in town and ran into Sam Evans. It took him through preparing food for her lunch. It even took him down the stairs to the cellar and past Barnabas' coffin, which sat, heavy and still, in the center of the main room. It took him all the way to the door of the cell. Where it ended abruptly when he fit the key in the lock and opened the cell door.

Maggie was huddled on the hard cot, dressed in something dark and woolen that Barnabas had insisted on. It was rubbing the skin raw around her wrists and neck, but at least it was keeping her warmer than the silk gown would have. Or at least he hoped so. Barnabas had also insisted on only one blanket and no matches, so when the candle chanced to go out, she would have to sit there, shivering, until one of them came down to relight it for her.

The candle was lit now, burning fitfully in the damp, still air. As he set the tray on the upended box by the bed, he could feel her large, hard eyes on him. She didn't say anything this time, though sometimes she was on him in a second, demanding that he let her go. Or begging that he let her go, depending, he thought, on how dark it had felt. She was apt to be more brave when the candle hadn't gone out, and Willie thought that Barnabas knew exactly what he was doing, breaking her down bit by bit using her own fears that came alive in the dark.

"I've brought some food for you, Maggie," he said, almost softly, as if there were some other person in the room that he might disturb.

"What is it?" she asked, mouth downturned in a scowl.

"Just some stuff," he said, shrugging, looking at the bowl of soup he'd made that had gone cold on the trip down the stairs. "Crackers and cheese."

He turned away as she reached for the crackers, not wanting, somehow, to watch her eat when she was so soon doomed to live an existence like Barnabas'. Or die resisting. Rubbing the heel of one hand against the welt in the other, he tried to ease the ache that had formed there and in his crushed wrist by the pressure of carrying the tray. That pain in his wrist, on top of the whirling patterns of heat across his lower back, was distracting him. He didn't see her get up and reach past him toward the door, which he'd left unlocked, never thinking she would actually try an escape at this stage. Of course he'd been foolish, of course Maggie would try. Otherwise she wouldn't be Maggie.

He grabbed her and pushed her back, and she was weak enough from the cold and the dark that it wasn't very hard. As he shoved her toward the cot, she toppled backwards when the back of her knees hit the edge, and he leaned forward in time to grab her and keep her from hitting her head against the brick wall. He hung there, for only a second, until he was sure she was okay, but it was long enough and the strain was hard enough for Barnabas' last beating to come alive. Dropping her arm, he stumbled away, feeling the heat build almost instantly under his skin, feeling the sharp, hot snakes uncoil in his lower back.

"Are you okay?" asked Maggie, standing up and moving the short space toward him. "You're all white."

"Uh," he grunted, unable to say something that would put her off, make her go away.

Her hands reached out for his face, clasping it between her palms, tender, cold fingertips resting against his cheekbones. "Willie," she asked, searching his face, "what happened to you?"

He looked at her, their eyes meeting with unusual sharpness. There was no way he could tell her, not only because he could never admit how Barnabas beat him, but also because it had been her ring that had brought the beating on. That, and his failure to handle it properly. He'd lost the ring, and it had been found by the worst possible person in the world.

Suddenly her hands drew away, leaving ice in their wake, and he closed his eyes against this sudden abandonment. Closed them till all that he could see was the silhouette of her shape against the darkness of the small cell.

"What did he do to you?" she asked.

His eyes flew open then. She stood next to the cot, the lone candle cutting the edges of her form with sharp, hard lines, and he could see that she had her hands clasped to her throat. She wasn't looking at him, wasn't looking at anything. Her eyes were huge and black and empty.

"This is about the ring, isn't it." There was a certainty in her voice at that moment, and he knew it wouldn't help her any to deny it.

He nodded, and the small movement seemed to attract her attention as she turned to look at him. "I gave you the ring," she said.

"I lost it," he managed, trying to look away.

But her eyes, absorbing the light of the candle, held him there, stronger than the bars on the cell door. "And he found it," she finished.

There was nothing he could say to that; the answer was obvious. 

"And then he beat you." This also was not a question, and she looked at him deliberately, as if looking at him was like looking at a very hard truth from which she would not flinch.

He drew back, starting to shake his head, to deny this as firmly as he could. But she reached out and grabbed his hand, the one with the welt across the palm and the large, dark maroon tangle that wrapped itself around his wrist. It hurt more than ever as she gripped him, fingers digging into the skin, and, with a wince and a cry, he snatched his hand away and hugged it to his chest.

The large darkness of her eyes began to fill with something that reflected like silver in the yellow light. And as he watched, almost panting with the pain singing along his arm, she began to cry. It was like the crying she'd done when Barnabas had promised her a death worse than any human had ever endured, with silent, heavy tears falling down her face. Her mouth was open as if she would begin moaning at any minute, but there was no sound. Only the dreadful, quiet tears from her round, open eyes.

The choice of running out of the room and locking the door quickly behind him fought with the urge to go next to her and comfort her. To try and calm her, to make her feel better somehow. And when she sank to the cot and buried her face in her hands, and the long trail of chestnut fell over her shoulders looking like black ink spilled by a careless hand, something clicked in his chest. He went to her, sat down next to her. And waited while she cried.

Wrapping his arms around her, as if he meant to protect her, would have been too much like the hypocrisy demonstrated by Barnabas or Jason. To hold her in his arms would be like implying he would save her, to rescue her somehow from the situation that had made her cry in the first place. And not only could he not save her from the fate Barnabas had planned, he could not change what had happened. Barnabas had found the ring, and Maggie's best shot at freedom had been killed midflight. So he sat next to her, his thigh pressing hers, his shoulder brushing against hers. So that she would know, at the very least, that she wasn't crying alone. In the dark.

"My fault," he heard.

"Maggie?"

She lifted her head, pushing the dark veil of hair back from her face. There was a sheet of tears on her cheeks, and she wiped at this with both palms, deep breaths shuddering in her throat.

"I shouldn't have done it, it was my fault."

This puzzled him, and she must have caught the slight shake of his head, because she reached out and patted his knee. 

"I gave you the ring because I wanted you to sell it and then have someone trace the ring back to you," she began, her lips trembling as she tried to smile. "My big plan was that my rescuers would come for me, all because of that little ring."

"I'm sorry I lost it," he said, still confused. "It fell out of my pocket, when David--" He stopped suddenly as her eyes flicked up to his face. 

"David," she said softly.

But to his relief, she didn't say anything more than that, only took her hand away from his knee, and laid both of her hands in her own lap. 

"I was selfish," she said.

"Selfish?"

"Yes, selfish," she insisted, a heaviness in her voice that he was not used to hearing. "I was only thinking of myself when I gave you that ring. I wanted to rescue myself, and I never thought about what would happen if my plans had turned out the way I wanted them too. Pop used to say that I was selfish, and I always thought he was wrong."

She seemed to realize that he did not understand what she was talking about, as her eyes took in his face, and the lowering of his brows. "I didn't care what would happen to you when they followed the ring and found me here. I was only hoping that they would get you both and hurt you the way you hurt me."

This went to his heart like an ice spear, and he found himself moving away, and made as if to stand when her hand found his, and her fingers wrapped around his palm. 

"You wouldn't have deserved that, no more than you deserved what Barnabas did to you."

"He didn't do anything to me, honest," he said, shaking his head, his voice earnest. "He just got a little mad."

Now it was her turn to shake her head, her hair falling a little over her face as she did so. "Willie," she said, gently, "I heard something land on the floor above my head. Two somethings actually, and then I heard shouting. And then I heard you. Crying out as he hit you."

"No," he said, "that's not what happened. I tripped, I--"

"Willie," she said, stopping him with a look. "Sound travels so very well in this house, as you know."

He suddenly wished he'd left before, instead of staying to comfort her, and he rose now, moving away from the cot and from her. Toward the door. His hands shook as he opened it and as he shut and locked it behind him. Didn't look back at her as she sat on her cot, with only one candle to light the darkness. He wouldn't do that again, he decided, without really knowing exactly what it was that he wouldn't do. Take gifts from prisoners, or sit down next to them when they cried and let them try to apologize for having tried to dupe you. Any and all of the above, he knew, as he reached the kitchen.

Looking down at his hands, he unclenched his fingers. He'd gripped the key so tightly that it had almost cut into his skin, and had left a key-shaped red and purple bruise. With a sound coming from his throat, he hurled the key against the kitchen table, and watched as it slithered against the wood to land with a ping on the floor. Before Barnabas got up, he'd have to find the key, but for now, he would let it lay there, where it was, half hidden by dust. And go on pretending that Maggie was safe and warm and dry, a book of poems across her blanket-covered knees, her feet in soft slippers, tucked close to a fire that he'd built for her.

***

Any sympathy that Maggie'd had for him was now completely gone, he knew that. After their struggle on the landing, where he'd held her tightly as she watched her father react to Joe's announcement that they'd found a girl's body on the beach, she hated him. He knew she did. She hated him now as much as she hated Barnabas. And she wasn't any more disposed to playing along with Barnabas' plans than she had been the day before, or was likely to be tomorrow. Flowers or no flowers.

His muscles were still screaming with the effort of holding Maggie at the top of the stairs, and the welts and bruises of his beating from the day before sang with pain as if they were newly made. As he held her tray of food in one hand, as he unlocked the cell door with the other, his arm was shaking. But he managed it, barely, slipping inside with the tray upright and locking the door behind him. The second he turned around, she was on him, flipping the tray up and sending the soup and the sandwich flying against his face and the door behind him.

"What are you bringing that in here for?" she demanded, her voice as close to a shout as he'd ever heard it. "Why bother? Pop thinks I'm dead, Joe thinks I'm dead, the whole town thinks I'm just a body in the morgue, why bother feeding me?"

With a quick glance over his shoulder, as if Barnabas might overhear them, he steadied the tray in his hands and turned back to look at her. The soup that was fast cooling in his hair and on his shirt dripped over his eyes and he blinked quickly. 

"Maggie," he began, but she grabbed the tray and hurled it, hair flying over her arms, and the china bowl on it crashing against the wall behind him. Shards of the bowl clattered past his feet and he felt frozen in the face of this.

"How _could_ you?" Her hands came up as if to grab him and hurt him, and he backed up, quickly coming to a stop with a bang against the metal door. His welts became a mass of fire.

Swallowing, he tried to ignore them, to pretend they were covered with ice, and reached for her, feeling them in the background as he spoke. He didn't even try to make believe that he didn't know what she was talking about. "Maggie, I had to, I had to do what he said."

"Oh?" She moved toward him now, and he grabbed her arms, gently, holding her there, as if he could contain the rage within.

"I had to do what he said, otherwise he'd kill--"

With her open palm, she slapped him. It wasn't a hard slap, even with the full weight of her anger behind it, she didn't have the strength. But his face was hot, and his lips were numb just the same as he let her go and raised his hand to his cheek. 

Instantly she froze, as if suddenly realizing the spot that she'd put herself in by antagonizing her jailer. As if she only now knew that it was he and he alone that kept her alive. Her face said all of this, going very pale and still, only her eyes, large and liquid, seemed to be unfrozen. Then she moved away, gathering her arms around her, turning slightly away till her face was in profile, and enough candlelight was on her face so that Willie could see her lashes as they almost rested on her cheek.

"You helped him," she hissed, "and you may have well as shown Pop my dead body with your own hands when you did it."

He wanted to move toward her, but didn't. There was only so much space in the cell, and it was her space, after all. She deserved what little privacy she could manage.

"Maggie," he started, even more gently this time, "if I hadn't held you, you would have rushed down those stairs, and he would have killed your Pop in front of your eyes. And then he would have killed you. Or maybe even killed you first and let your Pop watch. Would you have wanted that?"

There was no answer to this, but he saw her shudder and close her arms tighter around her waist.

"He'll miss you," he said quietly, bending forward, "but at least he'll be alive, ain't that the important thing?" 

She whirled on him, eyes blazing in the candlelight, no longer calm, making him back off again. "And that makes it okay? For you to stand by and watch while he does it? That makes you no better than he is!"

She was right in the worse possible way. But she wasn't finished, and he listened to her, his heart pounding. 

"You keep me here, you help him keep me here, and you keep on doing it. And do you know why?"

He almost shook his head at this, feeling his body start trembling as if she were Barnabas on a tirade that would end with something painful and nasty.

"Because you are afraid, Willie Loomis." She almost looked like she wanted to spit on him but that good breeding and decent manners kept her from actually doing it. "You're afraid of what will happen, that he'll--" she stopped suddenly, her chest heaving. "You could've attacked him and let me and Pop get away, when he wasn't expecting it, and I'd be free now!"

It was a different argument than she'd used before, but the effects on him were the same. She wanted him to throw himself to the lions for her, to escape while he stayed behind to face Barnabas' wrath on his own. She knew that Barnabas would kill him and she didn't seem to care.

"Why should I do that for you?" he asked, feeling the ice crystals form in his stomach, even as he realized with a start that he would do as she asked, if she asked. If he had the guts. But he didn't, and she knew it as well as he did. He was afraid. And at the same time, he wondered that she would expect this of him, without so much as a by-your-leave. "Why should I? Face that? Huh? Have you ever--"

He was about to ask had she ever faced Barnabas' wrath, and did she know what it was like, that maw of darkness and teeth and those eyes that saw everything, sharp as razor-wire. But of course she did. Barnabas had brought her here against her will, and the vampire's treatment of her had been anything but kind. Willie's hand was shaking as he brought it up to cover his eyes with it.

"You can't hide from this, Willie," he heard her snarl at him, and she pulled his hand away from his face. Like black holes her eyes were, in that pale face, in that dark cell. "You can't run and you can't hide." She drew in a sharp, hard breath. "And as you keep me here, you are as much a monster as he is. Do you understand that? You are a monster, too."

"N-no."

"Yes. Yes, you are."

"N-no, please Maggie--" he began, but she drew herself up to her full height, and titled her head back as if to look down her nose at him through lowered lashes. 

"Don't beg, Willie. A manservant never begs."

He didn't know how she knew about that, but he wanted, suddenly, to take her skull between his hands and dash it against the red bricks until they were even redder and more damp with her blood and bits of her brain. The rage made his hands shake as he made fists of them, and he struggled against it, his teeth clenching together until they hurt. He saw her eyes widen as she stepped back, alarmed, her hands coming up to her chest protectively. She was scared of him. He'd seen that look before, when she would face Barnabas and would have to back away. The single isolated thought that she was as afraid of him as of the vampire made the rage melt away like sugar in hot water, almost instantly, until the only vestiges of it left were his clenched teeth.

Now he could hear her breath coming in little squeaks as if she were struggling not to scream. She was absolutely white, and her face told him that she honestly believed that he was about to do her harm. He unclenched his teeth, sucking in his lower lip between them.

"Maggie," he said.

She was shaking from head to foot.

It wasn't going to help, at this point, anything he did would only scare her even further. 

"I-I'll go," he said now, bending to pick up the tray from the floor, the pressure of his pants pressing into his bruised back and legs. She moved away from him, almost tripping, and the sudden movement made him stand up too quickly, making the fire ripple across his skin. She apparently took the expression of pain on his face as being something else, and he heard the small cry in her throat, the involuntary sound of fear. A sound he never wanted to hear from her again. Not because of him, or anyone else.

He turned, and as quickly as he could, unlocked the door, shut it behind him and then locked it again. Looking through the bars at her, she was still pressed up against the brick wall at the foot of the bed, almost in the corner. Only part of her was in shadow, but the part that was not was so defined by fear that the darkness might as well have taken it.

**Jason's Fourth Visit**

Willie silently cursed as the large bucket of tar shingles banged against his knee for the thousandth time. At least the roof was repaired and should hold through the rain that was just starting to pour and maybe even through the winter to come. Though what winter would bring besides more of the same, he didn't know. Just as he reached the landing, the door flew open. At first he thought it was the humidity again, but it was Jason McGuire, his coattails flapping in a self-produced wind, and his fishing cap askew on his dark head. Willie'd already gotten rid of one unwanted visitor earlier when David, who seemed to feel that the word _no_ did not apply to him, had been goofing around near the Old House. Jason, of course, was not the kind of visitor to whom Willie could just say _go home_ and he would. Jason was smiling broadly, his large teeth white and shining. His jolly mood was apparently only a cover for a horrible mood, because the first thing he did was grab Willie by the arm. His fingers dug into the muscle there, and Willie hissed.

"Hey! What are you doin', Jason?"

"Still pretending to be the village carpenter, I see," snapped Jason, shaking Willie. "Well, I'm getting sick of it.

"Why, I don't see why you should care," he protested, the heat of anger rising with his voice. "Why don't you just go away and leave us alone?"

"Us?" Jason arched his brows. His dark eyes glittered. "Us is it now?"

Willie opened his mouth to explain that remark, but then realized that he couldn't, as he didn't understand it himself. Barnabas and he were hardly an _us_ in the usual sense of the word. He didn't like Barnabas, was terrified of him in fact, and Barnabas, in his turn, seemed to hold very little regard for the best manservant he'd ever had. But compared to him and Jason, he and Barnabas were a team. At least a kind of a team, anyway. But Jason would only take something like that and turn it around, and make it ugly. Use it to hurt.

"What're you doin' down here anyway," he asked instead. "Thought you were planning a wedding with Mrs. Stoddard."

"I am planning it," hissed Jason, apparently willing to be diverted, at least for the moment. "But that damn Carolyn keeps hanging on, annoying her mother and me, and all the harder since I've been trying to get rid of her."

"You mean you want her to move out?" asked Willie. Things must be pretty bad if Jason was wanting to eliminate his opponents. Though he himself had never thought of Carolyn as particularly threatening. Unless she had a gun in her hand. He shrugged, trying to get Jason to let go of his arm, which was beginning to lose most of its feeling. "Um, maybe if you asked her?"

"I have asked her," barked Jason, giving Willie another shake.

"Jason," started Willie, in an attempt to calm. "Jason, maybe if you asked nice, you know, saying that you and Mrs. Stoddard would want to be alone, and like that, you know?"

Jason's attention focused on Willie now. "Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I hadn't thought of that?"

Sensing the growing storm, Willie shook his head. "N-no, Jason, I don't think you're stupid, only if you show your cards now and try to force her out, then maybe she'll get mad or something. And then you might get mad and do something stupid in return. You know, to retaliate."

"You shouldn't call me stupid, Willie. I don't like it."

With horror, Willie realized that Jason's smile was getting even broader.

"No," said Jason, "I don't like it at all."

Jason released his grip on Willie but before Willie could shake him off, punched him right in the stomach. Every ounce of air left him like he was a popped balloon, and he collapsed on the floor, clutching his middle. For a second, while he gasped for air, the hallway was completely still. Then Jason was on him, straddling him, sending his left hook into Willie's jaw with the accuracy of a prize fighter. Only it wasn't a fair fight. Willie's legs were trapped beneath the weight of Jason's body. His hands were free, and he tried to use them, crossed over his head, to block the blows. But Jason was smarter than that. He wedged one of Willie's arms beneath one leg, and pressed the other flat against the floor.

The blows kept coming, snapping his head against the floor. He was beginning to see white stars, and pushed against Jason as hard as he could. The one hand beneath Jason's thigh flew free as Jason adjusted his straddle, and with one hard knock, Willie was able to push Jason off balance enough to scrabble away. He kicked with his feet, the heel of his shoe coming into gratifying contact with something solid.

But he wasn't able to move very far. Like a maddened animal, Jason was on him again, reaching to grab handfuls of Willie, and ending up with a handful of shirt. The buttons popped like Fourth of July firecrackers, and Willie grabbed a handle of stair railing, trying to pull himself up. Jason grabbed him by the waist and pulled him down. Another kick only found empty air, and suddenly he was face down on the dusty floorboards, with one hand twisted behind his back. Jason was straddling him again, putting enough pressure on his arm to break it. One more inch upwards and it would be broken. He tensed himself, waiting for the snap.

There was silence and stillness. And then the pressure on his arm disappeared instantly, though Jason still had hold of his wrist. Willie didn't dare move, or to look over his shoulder to see what had happened. Then he felt a hand on the bare skin of his back.

"What's this here then?"

"Let me up, Jason."

Fingers moved across his spine, from one side of his back to the other with an eerie lightness that made his skin prickle with goose bumps.

"You've got marks on your back, Willie, long bruises and cuts," announced Jason, with the awe of discovery in his voice. "How did you get these?"

When Willie didn't say anything, he pulled upwards on Willie's wrist. His shoulder blade bit into him.

"They're nothing," snapped Willie, "I fell, okay? Off a ladder, see." His left eye was swelling shut and his head was pounding and he was in no mood to deal with Jason's games.

"Nothing?" The pressure eased from his shoulder. "These look like belt marks to me, Willie. Belt marks delivered by a rather exacting hand."

Jason lifted up more of his shirt, and Willie shivered as the cold air hit his hot skin.

"And they go all the way up and down, too," said Jason, lingering over this remark. "Only...only Barnabas doesn't wear a belt, now does he." This was not a question.

"Jason," said Willie, trying to remain calm, trying to keep the pleading tone out of his voice, "leave it alone, will ya? Huh?"

"You wear a belt, though, don't you. And these marks are exactly--" Jason paused a moment, and his weight shifted a bit. "Yes, they're exactly as wide as the belt you're wearing."

Jason's complete lack of stupidity raced along, and Willie knew that the marks on his back from his most recent beating were sending a very clear message indeed.

Jason's weight left him as the other man moved back on his heels, crouching over him. A hand moved his shirt back down, covering him. "There, there, my boy," soothed Jason, "a whipping's over and done with, and not all bad, if you deserved it. Which you probably did. And not for the first time, I'll be bound."

He seemed to enjoy this thought and stood up, one foot on either side of Willie. Willie remained where he was and moved his now free arms up to circle his head. As Jason stepped over him toward the door, Willie heard a low, self-satisfied chuckle. "The great Willie Loomis, stealer of trinkets, and fencer of fortunes, brought down by a sound thrashing. With his own belt."

Then Jason paused. "Tell me, Willie. Does he take the belt from you, or do you give it to him?"

Willie clenched his eyes shut, tasting the dust of the floor. Jason was milking this for all it was worth, and another of Willie's hard-kept secrets was providing the other man with delicious fodder. He felt hot and flushed, the skin on the back of his neck cringing with the thought of Jason knowing any of this.

"Well, which is it?"

When he didn't answer, the toe of Jason's shoe found the main muscle of his thigh. Hard. Willie curved forward, hovering over his leg, rubbing at it though it would do no good. Through pain-narrowed eyes, he could see Jason, hat still slightly askew, that smile still in place. The coat was a bit more rumpled now, though, as if Jason had been in a fight. Which he hadn't. It hadn't been any kind of a fight.

"Well?"

Jason moved forward as if to kick him again, and Willie scooted backwards and put his hands out. "I give it to him," he said quickly, his voice breaking. "I give it to him, okay? Now will you please leave me alone?"

There was a bark of laughter as Jason threw back his head. "Hah! That's wonderful, that is. Simply wonderful. I just wish your old pals in prison knew about this. They'd laugh themselves sick." And, still laughing, Jason let himself out, closing the door behind him.

Willie decided then, as he struggled to push himself to a sitting position, that Jason's hell was very hot, and Barnabas' hell was very cold. That's how it felt at that moment; his skin was hot all over, and the air in the Old House seemed cold. At least his nose wasn't bleeding this time. It felt hot and sore to his touch, as he tested it with a shaking hand, but it wasn't bleeding. His lip was though, and the inside of his mouth, from the taste of it. And his eye. Definitely swollen, and turning black soon, as the blood pounded around it. He knew the feeling, had had many a black eye in the past.

Pulling himself up on the stair railing, he limped to the kitchen. A charley horse in his thigh, on top of everything else, then. Rain pattered against the kitchen window, and a sudden gust of wind rattled the panes of the glass in the kitchen door. The wind seemed to whistle as it raced around outside, and he felt a sudden urge to be out in it. For all the thunderstorms and lightning, it was normally too early in the season for much rain, but from the sounds of it, this was going to be a downpour. He wanted to be out in it, not stuck inside the suffocating confines of the Old House. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the door of the kitchen and stepped outside.

Running, feeling as if he were trying to dodge raindrops, he followed the dark path to the top of the cliffs. Rain sliced through the trees, almost horizontal, and the closer he got to the cliffs, the larger the drops became. As he reached the top of the path, the large swath of ocean spread itself below his feet. He knew it was there, but only the jags of lightning gave it a dark, rolling shape instead of complete blackness.

Jason. Jason knew. Knew the humiliating fact that Barnabas could command from Willie his own belt and then beat him with it. Anything else he knew he could have stood, could have dealt with or shrugged off. Even Jason's earlier remarks about him being the lady of the house hadn't carried much sting. Just Jason being sarcastic. He heard that voice even now, _does he take it from you, or do you give it to him?_

_Yeah, Jason, I give it to him. I volunteer and line up for it. And then he beats the stuffing out of me and I let him, how do you like that?_

Jason had thought the whole thing a riot, and the only thing Willie could say for it was that it had sent Jason away in a good mood. A very good mood. At Willie's expense. Something he was used to, but not like this. Not this knee-bending servitude.

With a snarl, he reached down and undid his belt. Pulled it from the loops of his pants. And, before he could think, heaved it over the edge of the cliff. He did not know if it landed. Did not care. No one was ever going to beat him with it again. Turning, he raced down the path toward the house, his eye thumping, and his thigh bursting with pain. Then he went into the house and closed the door just as the rain began in earnest.

As hard as he tried not to think about it, as hard as he tried to concentrate wetting a washrag under the pump, it stabbed at him. Like a spear that was thrust in and then pulled out and then thrust in again. He tried to catch his breath, but it kept snagging on something in his throat. Jason knew about it now. Knew that Barnabas held him in a pain-laced sway. Even Jason, especially Jason, knew that he couldn't stand any level of pain above a pinprick. And even that was too much sometimes.

With a sigh, he collapsed in a chair next to the table. Propping both elbows on its worn surface, he folded the damp, cold cloth in his hands and buried his head in it. The coldness soothed his eye for a second, and then the pounding began again. He wished he had a nice steak, or even some ice in a towel, but the water from the pump drew from a deep, dark spring, and the water was as icy as if it had come from a frozen over lake.

Seconds after he'd gotten up to rewet and fold the cloth, the door to the kitchen opened, and Barnabas entered. Willie looked at him out of the corner of his eye before turning away, pretending to be very busy at the sink. Barnabas looked like he'd been out for a feed. His skin was almost rosy and human in hue, and his expression looked pleased. Rain sparkled on his dark hair and on the layers of his caped coat.

"It was a good idea for you to have planned on fixing the roof today, if this rain is anything to go by. Were you able to finish?"

"Yeah," he replied, his back still to Barnabas. One hand worked the pump, the other, nearly frozen, held the washrag beneath the stream of icy water.

"And will it hold, do you think?"

The questions were asked in the mildest of tones, but Willie felt the heat building inside of him. 

"Yeah," he said, swallowing this, "it'll hold."

Barnabas moved closer, bringing the scent of rain with him. "What are you--" he started to ask, and then he stopped. Willie didn't dare look at him, but shifted to keep the one side of his face out of view.

"What happened to you?"

"Whaddyamean?" he asked back, his voice casual.

"There's a bruise on your face."

Ice shot through him. He'd forgotten about that, about his face hitting the floor with the impact of Jason's fists. It didn't hurt nearly as much as his eye did, and being paled by comparison, had been left open to perusal.

"I-I fell off a ladder," he mumbled, thinking that it was the only ladder he knew with fists and hard feet. "Yeah, a ladder, that was it."

"A ladder?" asked Barnabas, eyebrows going up. He moved away; Willie could hear him taking off his coat and shaking it out. The kitchen was the warmest room in the house and the wool would dry faster hanging on the back of a chair than it would hanging on the coat rack in the front hall. Then he was back again, even closer now, observing what Willie was doing.

"I think that's as clean as it's ever going to get now," he remarked.

Willie looked down at his hand. It was quite red with cold, and on the cloth fisted between his fingers was a very clear blood stain.

Two hands reached out to still his insistent pumping. Pulled him around to face the vampire. The washcloth was dragged over the edge of the sink, and trailed water over the floor until Barnabas loosened it from his nerveless fingers and dropped it in the sink.

"You were in a fight," came the obvious statement.

"No I wasn't," insisted Willie, his head lowered, eyes downcast. "I-I told you, I fell off a ladder."

Barnabas let go of him, and Willie struggled to remain where he was, otherwise that would make the vampire even madder. This calmness wasn't fooling Willie. The storm was coming. And he was going to get it, but good. And whether he deserved it or not.

"I've yet to see a ladder that could leave a black eye. A mark like that is only made by a man's fist." Barnabas' voice was quite calm. "Who were you in a fight with? Was it someone in town?"

For some reason, Willie's brain clamped down on the truth and his mouth refused to utter it. The shame of having Jason know that Barnabas had bested him was easier to bear, for some reason, than the thought of Barnabas knowing that Jason was able to put the squeeze on him so easily. Barnabas knew all of his weaknesses already; the thought of him knowing any more was simply too much.

"No one. I wasn't in a fight with nobody."

The expression on Barnabas' face was a question in itself: eyebrows raised, that head tilted to one side. Willie flicked his eyes up to look at him, and then looked away. At the sink, the floor, the puddle at his feet. Anything but those eyes.

"I'll ask you one more time, Willie. Who were you in a fight with?"

The tone in that voice was dangerously level. The vampire's patience wasn't going to last for much longer, but Willie didn't know how he could answer any other way.

"I told you," he said, letting the frustration seep into his words, "I wasn't in a fight with nobody. I fell off a ladder and so will you please leave me alone?"

The ladder lie hadn't fooled Jason, and it certainly wasn't fooling Barnabas. The darkness of the Thing was rising in his eyes, and he moved forward, faster than a breath, to grab Willie by the shirt collar.

"Insolence on top of falsehoods, I see," he said, the low tones raising the hairs on the back of Willie's neck. "Well, I have a response to that. Give me your belt, Willie."

Willie shook his head, pulling against Barnabas' grasp, though he knew it would do him no good.

"I said, give me your belt!"

It was worse now, this command, knowing that Jason knew, and seeing Jason's laughing face in the back of his mind.

"No," he said, almost choking, not looking at Barnabas, keeping his gaze quite focused on the second button of Barnabas' suit coat.

"I beg your pardon?" The amazement was plain. "What did you just say?"

"I said," explained Willie as calmly as he could, "no."

"No? And would you care to explain why you won't give me your belt?"

Of course he would not care to do so, but Barnabas wasn't going anywhere soon, and he might as well get it over with now as later. "I-I can't," he stammered.

"And why not?"

"B-because I threw it over the cliff into the ocean. It was high tide and it's long gone by now, Barnabas." He said this as quickly as he could, his tongue stumbling as it raced.

"Then I shall have to use my cane."

All the blood and feeling in his body left him. He lurched backwards, feet stumbling, his hands flying up as the weight of his body fell against Barnabas' grip. Any pride that remained fell into tatters, collapsing like dead leaves into his soul. He looked Barnabas right in the face. "P-please, Barnabas, d-don't, not, not th-that, I c-couldn't bear it." He knew he couldn't. It would kill him, he was sure. He could barely stand up straight as it was, and the thought of Barnabas flailing at him with that hard, silver-topped cane was more than he could imagine. More pain than he could bear.

Barnabas paused. The Thing in his eyes brightened for a second and then dimmed. He almost seemed to be nodding to himself. "Very well then," he said, "we do it another way."

There was another way? Alarm raced through him, replacing every feeling he had with a high pitched sharpness.

"B-barnabas, please, just--"

"Just what, Willie?" asked Barnabas, letting him go to turn to look around the kitchen. "Just forget?"

The eyes turned to look at him for a second before looking away again. "A manservant doesn't go brawling with the toughs in town. A manservant, if he has been brawling, doesn't lie about it. And further, a manservant is never insolent. All of this deserves to be punished. Do I make myself clear?"

The panic in him verged on hysteria. Barnabas was reaching into a drawer and was pulling out the knife used to trim shards of wood for kindling. For a second, Willie thought that Barnabas was going to stab him with it. Then, he handed it to Willie, handle first. For a long moment, Willie stood with the knife in his hand, business side out, and wondered what he should do with it. A momentary flash urged him to try and tackle Barnabas with it, but a slim knife was hardly a match for a vampire, and so Willie swallowed this thought, his hand involuntarily tightening into a fist.

If Barnabas noticed this, he ignored it to say, "Go into the yard and cut a switch and bring it back to me. That will be your punishment."

_A switch?_

"A switch?" he asked aloud.

"It's either that or the cane," replied Barnabas simply.

The choice was his then, but it wasn't much of a choice. The cane was heavy and solid and capable of breaking bones. A switch would be lighter. Maybe even lighter than the belt. He nodded his head, trying to make the tight muscles in his neck loosen.

When he stepped outside, the storm had him soaked almost instantly. It was hard to see, as well, and he struggled to make sense of the hardwood jungle to find the right sized branch. Of course, Barnabas wouldn't let a small matter of a missing belt stop him from delivering what he considered to be well-deserved punishment. He found a branch that was about as round as his thumb and hacked at the end near the trunk. He didn't know how big the thing should be, except that if it was too small, Barnabas was liable to go and cut a branch himself, something bigger and nastier, and that option was too painful to contemplate. It took him several minutes to cut all the way through the branch, and he nearly cut himself doing it. By the time he'd finished, he was soaked clean through.

Stepping back into the kitchen dripping with rain, he handed Barnabas the knife. Barnabas wiped it between his fingers to clean it and then replaced it in the drawer and held out his hand. Willie was shaking as he handed him the switch. He pushed the rain-soaked hair out of his eyes. A puddle of water gathered beneath his feet, and his teeth started to chatter. He clenched them to still this, but the shiver moved into the rest of his body. He watched as Barnabas peeled off several green leaves, and part of the bark to make one long, smooth rod.

"Come here, Willie."

The weight of his feet pulled at him. He took one step, and then managed another.

" _Here_ , Willie."

He was as close as he could possibly get without actually touching the vampire or the table. The table was very close, anyway, and Barnabas waved his hand over it.

Swallowing, he realized what Barnabas was making him do. Barnabas wanted him to bend himself over the table and hold himself there while the vampire meted out the punishment. He couldn't do it. No way, no how. His body knew he was at the end of his rope before his brain did, and the fact that he was shuddering uncontrollably registered seconds after.

Barnabas sighed. "A manservant knows how to take the punishment he deserves." He fingered the end of the switch.

Something peaked in the back of his brain, as Maggie's words of the day before echoed there. They were razor sharp and flew out of his mouth before he could stop it. "I'm not your manservant," he snarled, looking Barnabas in the eye. "I never said I was. I'm not anybody's manservant, least of all yours."

The only thing this remark saved him from, he realized as Barnabas' hand clamped around the back of his neck and his head hit the table, was having to bend himself over the table. The boards of the table pressed his wet clothes against his skin, making him cold all over again, and the fingers on his neck were clamped down extra hard. He had only seconds to wonder at this, when his breath froze in his throat at the sound of something whistling through the air. 

The belt had never made a sound like that, only a dull swish, and then a thud-crack as it struck him. This sound was high and sharp, almost like a scream. And as it cut through his wet shirt and then through the skin on his back, the scream was repeated as it ripped itself from his throat. The belt had never hurt like this, or the cane. Like razor wire, the skinny, freshly-cut branch ripped into him, taking his breath and leaving a long, fire-brand of pain. Pain that vibrated down deep near his soul like an electric wire, and then struck at him again, making him think it was alive and had teeth and knew where the nerve endings in his back were. By the third stroke, he was sobbing, gulping the air in like a drowning man, and almost screaming it out. By the fourth stroke, a line of pure acid laying itself down exactly where the first stroke had landed, his screams had turned real.

"B-b-b--"

He couldn't utter the words, simply couldn't. He wanted to desperately, and his hands reached back behind his neck to try and pry Barnabas' fingers off of him. He'd never done this before and didn't think it would work. It didn't. But it gave him something to hold onto, his own fingers digging into the flesh of Barnabas' wrist, which was like solid ice. The fifth stroke seared the very breath from his lungs. Then finally, he drew a deep breath, hauled it right down to his toes and forced the words out.

"S-stop, please," he begged, gulping the acid in his throat, "Barnabas, stop, I-I'm sorry, please st--"

There was a pause, and one final shriek of wood through the air to land on his back like fire.

"Six," said Barnabas, when Willie's scream stopped echoing in the kitchen.

As the clamp on his neck was released, so were the hovering tears in his eyes, and the sounds of despair from somewhere inside of him. He wrapped his arms around his head and cried.

His back was, literally, on fire. Blood pounded in his head. His whole body was one big, beaten nerve. And hot, as if someone had lit coals inside of him and they were burning him from the inside out. If Jason knew that he'd just begged for mercy, he'd laugh himself sick. He'd laugh himself into a coma if he knew Willie was crying.

And Barnabas? The room was quiet except for Willie's sobs. Barnabas was doing something with the stove, opening it, and then something went crack, crack, crack. Willie jumped up, shuddering, wiping his face with the sleeve that was less damp. He saw Barnabas break the switch into three pieces and stuff them into the wood slot, and shut the door behind them. Then, in seconds, Willie's head began to swim and something sharp and nasty raced up from his toes. He felt the waves of whiteness before he saw them, curtains of white that blocked out part of the room, of Barnabas rising from the stove.

"Uh," was all he could manage. His best bet was to try and aim himself so that his head didn't hit anything sharp or hard.

**Redemption**

It was in the middle of the day when he carried the bucket of warm water down to the basement. He'd wanted to have started the stove to heat the water sooner, but had been unable to drag himself out of bed. Jason's pummeling of the day before had left him sore all over, and Barnabas' switch had cut into him deep enough so that every breath he took reminded him of it with large, red-hot jabs that encircled his ribs. Halfway down, he almost stumbled, his eyes on the closed coffin and not on the stairs. It was a close call, enough to jar the bucket and splash the stairs some, but that would dry long before sunset. At least he hoped it would.

Hot water in a bucket and soap and a clean towel was not far above the primitive, above the mean state that Barnabas had said he wanted Maggie to exist in, but it was something. When he'd visited her the day before, he'd noticed she was getting filthy. Not surprising, given her surroundings, where the cobwebs formed daily and the damp oozed from the cracks in the brick walls. She'd not complained either, but he'd seen her trying to wipe her face with the back of a long, black sleeve.

At the cell door, he put the bucket down and unlocked it, peering in. She was sitting, as usual, on her bed in the gloom, legs tucked under her, sightless eyes staring at the single candle. He half expected one day that he would walk in on her like that and find her dead, she was that still and motionless. As he picked up the bucket and carried it into the room and shut the door behind him, she barely moved her head to acknowledge his existence, but there was a flicker in her eyes that told him she knew he was there. 

Placing the bucket next to the bed, he pulled the soap from his apron pocket, and the stubs of about five candles. Barnabas had ordered that she only be allowed one candle a day, and so Willie supplied her with that, because, after all, who could say how many stubs made up a single candle? And as long as she kept them lit from each other, she would never be in the dark. Barnabas wasn't allowing her any matches either.

"Maggie?" he asked, his voice low.

Her eyes turned to look at him and then look away.

"I-I brought you some water to wash with." When she didn't say anything, he added, "It's hot. And I have soap too."

This was, he knew, a long cry from the elaborate baths he'd been able to prepare for her before. When she was Josette. Now she was just Maggie, a nothing and a nobody, as far as Barnabas was concerned. Not fit for the company of others. Now it was a hard cake of soap and a metal bucket, the same one he used to fetch water to scrub the porch and the floors with.

He moved so that he was in her line of vision, behind the candle, and still she didn't look at him. Picking up the candle, he watched as her eyes followed it, the only source of light in the room, as if by focusing on it she could find herself somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Where the sun shone, and there might be a slight breeze from the ocean, and the air smelled of something sweet and wild. Instead of the dank, closed-in damp of the basement of the Old House. Holding the candle next to his face, he covered it from her view with one hand. It was only then that her eyes flicked to him, widening with alarm.

"Willie," she said, as if seeing him there for the first time.

"I've brought you hot water to wash with."

"Don't want to wash," she stated crossly, looking away. "Want to go home."

Willie closed his eyes for a second, and shut the door in his mind against the wrenching cry that threatened to escape.

"You never mind that now," he told her. "You need to wash up."

There was a second as she looked at him, half there, half in her own mind. Or out of her mind. He couldn't tell which, in the light of a single candle; he couldn't tell if she veered more toward madness or sanity. And then she seemed to shrug, as if it were nothing to her whether she washed or not, but would do it if he wanted it. It was not a response that made him feel very good, because it was almost as if she were following his orders as she would Barnabas'.

Swinging her legs to the floor, she bent and scooped her hands in the bucket and splashed her face. He handed her the soap and watched as she used it to wash her face and neck and hands. Then he handed her the towel so that she could dry herself off. There was water on the floor now, puddles of it, swirled through with dust and dirt.

"There," she said, dully, handing him back the towel. "I've washed. I'm clean now. Would you please leave me alone?"

She was about to turn on the bed and sweep her feet back up under her, and Willie saw that they were as black as coal. She'd not been wearing the slippers he'd brought her then, and he didn't know if it was because she forgot about them or because she didn't see the point. She wasn't going anywhere very soon and she knew it. What use were slippers?

"Maggie," he said, and knelt before her, sitting back on his heels, and circled one of her ankles with his hand.

Her eyes narrowed then, as he looked at her, and her expression told him that she almost remembered the other time he'd washed her feet. Almost, because, of course, that time she'd thought he was her Pop. This time there was no pretence, nothing to filter out the ugliness of her situation. No beautiful room, elegant in its abundance. No haze of a vampire's bite. No delusions whatsoever.

But she didn't pull away, not even when he rested her foot on his bent thigh, or when he dipped the bar of soap in now lukewarm water and lathered her foot with it. Then he wet the towel and wiped her foot down, and then dried it off with the other end of the towel. He repeated this with her other foot, and when he was done, her feet were clean and dry and resting against his thighs. His pants were soaked through. And still she hadn't said a word.

He looked up at her, then. Her eyes were on him, and her face was utterly still and without expression. Now it was his turn to look away, and he stared at his hands as he pulled the dark cloth of her skirt back down over her legs. As he did so, his head dropped till his chin was almost touching his chest, so heavy to bear, the grave stillness of knowing there was nothing he could do. His hand dropped against her feet, the other reached toward the bucket.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he wasn't sure what it was he was sorry for, whether it was for her, or himself, or the two of them together. He was sorry about everything. Everything he couldn't do, everything he'd already done. And everything he'd stood by and allowed to happen.

Beneath his hands, her toes curled and uncurled, almost pinching him, and then he felt the weight of her hand on the back of his head. It was a gentle weight that seemed to pull him forward until his cheek was resting against her knee.

"Oh, Willie," he heard her softly breathe. It wasn't atonement, it wasn't forgiveness, he would never think to ask, let alone expect, anything like that. But it was something akin to benediction. The warmth of her hand soaked down into him, and the warm hardness of her knee rose up, and, like a circle, began to flow through him. And he wanted to stay that way forever, the ribbon of her warmth weaving its way between the cracks in his soul.

But the water in the bucket under his fingers began to grow quickly cold, and he knew that he had to leave. Leave before something happened that shouldn't. And it wasn't that Barnabas might find him like this, might find out that Willie had offered Maggie some luxury. No, it was that he might start melting all over, instead of just in one spot. And the long fought-for shield that he'd grown over all the parts of him that cared would be gone. And then, at that point, he knew he would go crazy himself.

Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes and pulled away. It was rather like he imagined pulling his own heart out from his chest might feel like. But he did it, with a groan billowing from somewhere inside of him, and his hand blindly grabbing for the bucket. Her hand slipped away, trailing down the side of his head, and then his arm, and he knew he was going to die. With a rush and a stumble, he pushed himself out of the room and locked the door behind him. Not wanting to look at her, not wanting to see her as he knew she was. Once again, staring at the candle, on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her.

But even as he ran up the stairs, sloshing water everywhichway and not caring, he knew that he would remember her touch, her warm hand resting on his head, until the day that he died.

**The Cruelty of Sympathy**

He walked up the stairs, some unknown heaviness pulling at his feet until he could barely lift himself up to the landing. He'd just screamed at her, screamed right in her face, at Maggie, because she was slipping away. Babbling like a child, earnest and obedient, and at first he'd thought she was having him on. Pulling a fast one, the ultimate con job. But unlike the last time she'd tried to fool him, when she'd pretended to be Josette, the facade hadn't slipped away. Not even when he'd told her to cut it out, and he wanted her to, so very badly. To be the Maggie he once knew, tough, self-reliant, almost haughty in her wrong-side-of-the-tracks pride. The Maggie he'd fallen for, once, in a morning coffee shop.

The same Maggie that Barnabas had systematically destroyed. As if he'd planned it that way, slice by slice, cutting off everything that was Maggie. First, by bringing her here, then by insisting she was Josette, and that Maggie no longer existed, and then by, finally, cutting her off from everyone and everything away in the darkness. Cutting her off, even, from herself. There was not much left now of Maggie Evans, but even what there remained Barnabas wasn't willing to let alone. He was going to kill her and leave no trace that she'd ever existed.

As he finally made his way to his bedroom and shut the door behind him, he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep. Barnabas was going to kill Maggie Evans tomorrow night. And while Willie thought that Maggie might be terrified if she knew, deep down inside, the worst part of it for her was what Barnabas had promised her earlier: that at first they would mourn her passing, and then, presently, go about their lives as if she'd never existed. She'd fought so hard, right from the very beginning, to maintain her identity. But the lack of existence, the complete lack of being who she was, had finally broken her.

He realized he was pacing, rubbing his arms with his hands, pacing back and forth from the bed to the door. The sun was just coming up, bare, pale streaks dappling the trees outside his window. And still he couldn't sleep. Not while Maggie waited in the basement, and Barnabas slept below, content in his plans and righteous in his decision. The vampire's way of killing Maggie was so that she would suffer so much that she would beg to die. She didn't deserve that, and he would spare her that if he could. But if he set her free, Barnabas would find her and kill her anyway. And then kill Willie for his betrayal.

The pacing was making him tired, his head was throbbing, and he needed to get out of the Old House, just for one minute. Stumbling down the stairs and out through the kitchen door, he gasped with shock as the morning air and the sun hit him. So bright and fresh and cold.

Barnabas was right. The world would go on without Maggie. Without him even. But that didn't mean that she had to die a miserable death. Somehow there had to be a way to make her death an easier one. While part of his mind was screaming that she didn't have to die at all, that it was completely cruel of Barnabas, the other half of him contemplated the issue calmly. Death. An easy one. Simple and quiet and clean. Not Barnabas' way, with him smiling that tight, evil smile of his, and his strong hands reaching out farther than was humanly possible. Grabbing on and not letting go. Ripping and tearing until she was nothing but a pile of ash.

He shuddered and gulped and closed his eyes against the sun. But still it was there, glowing red behind his eyelids. Some things didn't change, no matter how much he wanted them to. The sun would go on shining, and Maggie would be dead soon after nightfall.

He went back into the kitchen, eyes taking in the kitchen without really seeing it. Going over to the pump, he worked it until the cold water flowed, and then he cupped his hand under it and brought it to his mouth and swallowed some. On the counter by the sink were a stack of supplies that, after his last trip into town, he'd forgotten to put away. Barnabas, preoccupied by their houseguest, hadn't noticed, and in Willie's own never-ceasing worry about Maggie, he'd forgotten too. There was oatmeal, and cheese, some apples starting to go brown, and a box of sugar. 

Only it wasn't a box of sugar, it was for the rats. The Old House was rampant with rats, especially in the unlived-in parts of the house, and they'd recently gotten bold enough to start chewing on the drapes in Josette's room. Barnabas had ordered that Willie do something about it, and when traps had proven ineffective, he'd bought the poison and thought he'd try that. It was a powder that the instructions said he should mix in with scraps or ground cornmeal. A fine powder, that very much resembled sugar. And was white, like milk.

It took him all day before he could work himself up to do it. Getting the milk from the ice house was easy. Making up the tray, with the apples and the cheese and some thick slices of bread was easy, too. Pouring the milk took him an hour. As for spooning in the poison, it took him till well near dark before he could do it. But it was either that, or Barnabas would kill her himself in a slow, dreadful, painful way. Of course, he might find out that Willie'd beaten him to the punch, but the sound thrashing that would ensue would be far easier to bear than the thought that he'd let her die the vampire's way. But maybe Barnabas would kill him anyway when he found out. But at least Maggie would die easy. Not screaming.

He dipped the spoon in the poison and stirred it into the milk, almost warm from having been sitting out all day. He put in another spoonful, and then another, having no idea how much was enough. Even if it only knocked her out, she would be unconscious when it happened.

He carried the tray down the stairs, wondering what it was that worked to convince him that this was the best way. Was it the fear of hearing her scream when Barnabas did it? There was no way he could get far enough away fast enough to not hear that, when the vampire awoke. But he planned on sticking around this time anyway, not like the last time Barnabas had wanted to take her as his bride. He'd been out the door as fast as he could, that time.

By the time he reached the bottom step, he knew he couldn't explain it to himself what it was that weighed his heart so heavy. The little warm spot that Maggie had created only yesterday was alight and alive and bleeding. He wished it would freeze over, wished it would happen fast so that he wouldn't feel any of this. But he was feeling it, and it was worse than any beating Barnabas had ever given him. To save her, he had to kill her.

**Maggie Slips the Leash**

In the end, telling Maggie about the milk had relieved him of only part of the pain in his heart. It had then become her choice how she died and by whose hand. But still, when he'd left her there, her pleas for freedom still echoing in his brain, still feeling her sobbing into his shirt, pressed against his back, he'd known that most of the responsibility for her death would be his. He could let her go. But if he did that, even though she might get away and be well-guarded for a time, Barnabas would eventually find her and kill her and then kill Willie. 

But in death they might be free and Barnabas would be so vulnerable then. Naked to the world without Willie to protect him during the day, his beloved Josette once again beyond his reach. It might be worth dying if he could be sure that it would destroy Barnabas. But he couldn't be sure, and, knowing Barnabas as he did, the vampire would dust himself off and find another Willie. And another Josette. And the cycle would start all over again. The only way to make sure that it did not would be to stay alive. Maggie would die, but he felt, he hoped, that she would understand why it had to be this way. If he was alive he would do everything in his power to make sure that there never, ever was another like Maggie Evans trapped in the vise grip of the Old House.

Willie heard the tread of Barnabas' step on the stair, and his stomach began to churn. The vampire had really done it then, killed Maggie Evans, though it seemed to have taken longer than it ought. Maybe she hadn't drunk the milk. At the same time, there hadn't been any sounds from the basement. No screams. Maybe she had. As he heard the vampire step through the doorway, Willie turned away. Gripping the countertop, he leaned over the sink, trying to calm his breath and the beating of his heart.

_You killed her, you killed her, you killed her._

Barnabas' footsteps stopped and Willie judged he was just inside the doorway.

"She's gone," said Barnabas.

"Of course she's gone!" snarled Willie, surprising himself. "You just _killed_ her!" His voice rose and broke.

"No," said Barnabas slowly, as if explaining the situation to an idiot. "She's gone because she managed to escape."

Whirling around, Willie almost jumped out of his skin. Barnabas was wearing a fierce scowl that darkened the shadows of his face. His eyes were almost hidden by lowered brows, and his hair was damp, as if with rain. He still had his coat on, and it too was damp. What made Willie realize that something was strange was the fact that it wasn't raining. And Barnabas had tracked in mud and what looked like sand.

"Wh-what do you mean, Barnabas?" he ventured, his mind racing to consider all the ways it had been impossible for her to get away. And yet she had.

_And yet she had._

"Don't get any ideas," snarled Barnabas. "She had help."

"It wasn't me!" Willie said quickly, his voice high. His hands as fists came to his chest, curving protectively around his heart.

"I didn't think it was you," Barnabas replied. "She went through a secret passageway that I didn't know was there."

"Huh?" He was astonished. "I thought you knew everything there was to know about--"

"Be quiet, Willie, and let me finish."

Barnabas seemed to need, desperately so, to tell someone what had happened. Sensing this, sensing the anger building in the vampire, Willie snapped his mouth shut.

"She escaped through a maze of doorways and stairways that lead to the beach. A smugglers cove, as I recall, but I never knew how they got shipments to the top of Widow's Hill. Now I know."

"And Maggie?" he asked, not caring overly much for smugglers and history.

"Her father came along," Barnabas sounded surprised as he said this, and looked at Willie as if to dare him to deny that this was the strangest fact of all. "That _hopeless_ alcoholic showed up at the exact moment that Maggie stepped out onto the beach." Here Barnabas paused to cock his head expectantly at Willie. "Now how do you suppose he knew where and when to find her there?"

Willie felt the blood leave his face in a rush. The evidence was there, and past behavior on his part had obviously led Barnabas to the wrong conclusion.

"Now, you don't think that I had anything to do with that, huh? I wouldn't betray you, Barnabas, you know I wouldn't."

The look Barnabas sent him was one he'd not seen since the last time Maggie Evans had been rescued. It told him that the vampire was on the verge of delivering the dire consequences he'd decided that Willie so richly deserved.

Then the vampire's eyes flicked down to where Willie's fists were pressed against his chest.

"If Maggie Evans had not raced through that maze as if she knew exactly where she was going, you, Willie, would be the very person I would suspect."

Somehow this didn't sound as comforting as it ought to have done, and Willie knew he was still on thin ice.

"As for her father," said Barnabas, as if now talking to himself, "he is a painter. Those with creative geniuses are said to dance with madness. Perhaps his madness gave him the insight he needed to find his daughter."

It was only then that Willie found he could let his breath out in a rush.

"And now," said Barnabas, gathering himself up, "I must away to the hospital where, no doubt, her father has taken her."

"No." Willie swallowed. "No, Barnabas."

Barnabas stopped, arching a brow at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Willie took a deep breath, which did nothing, absolutely nothing, to calm the thudding of his heart. "Just leave her alone, huh?"

Barnabas was silent, staring at him, glowering. Then he said, "While she lives, she is a danger to me."

This was true. In his heart, he knew it was true. There was no world where Barnabas and Maggie could both exist. When Maggie came to her senses, she would point the finger right at Barnabas without a single second's hesitation, and that would be the end of him. She was well loved by all who knew her, and when the town found out who had been responsible for her kidnapping, they would tear Barnabas apart. And him along with the vampire.

"B-but," he said anyway, even knowing that it was his duty to protect Barnabas, "hasn't she earned her freedom?"

"No."

Barnabas turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of sand and mud behind him. He was going toward the front door, had reached the foyer in fact, when Willie pounced from behind and grabbed him by the arm. It was like iron under the wool coat, ice cold iron, and he let go quickly as Barnabas turned to look at him, amazed. 

"And what do you think you're doing?"

"Tryin' to stop you," he said. "I don't want you to do it."

"And what exactly is it you think I'm going to do?"

They both knew what Barnabas' intentions were, but Willie knew that Barnabas was forcing him to say it to teach him a lesson. "Y-you're going to go down there and k--" He stopped suddenly, his mouth working around the word it did not want to say.

"That's precisely what I'm going to do," said Barnabas, grabbing his arm. "And you're going to drive me to that hospital."

"No!"

"Yes!"

He opened the front door with one hand and shoved Willie through it with the other. The night air landed on his skin with a shock and he stumbled forward as Barnabas pushed him.

"Please, Barnabas, please don't make me, oh, please." The begging words raced from him as he realized that Barnabas really meant it, meant for him to drive down to the hospital and witness Maggie's final moments.

"You will drive me to that hospital, or Maggie won't be the only one breathing her last, do you understand me, Willie?"

He got into the driver's seat after opening the door for Barnabas and started the engine, his mind racing fast as he headed toward Collinsport. There was only the one hospital in town, so he headed there, wondering if there was some way that he could stop this, stop Barnabas and give Maggie the fighting chance that she deserved. But he arrived at the hospital before he could think of anything, barely able to concentrate on making the car go where he wanted it with an angry, anxious vampire breathing down his neck, let alone try to think of a plan to save Maggie Evans.

Pulling in to the hospital parking lot, he parked the car. As the tall light poles cast circular shadows around the car, he looked back at Barnabas.

"No," said Barnabas, "you don't have to come in."

Willie breathed a sigh of relief. 

"But be prepared to drive away quickly when I come out."

He nodded silently, watching Barnabas move darkly across the parking lot. And wondered what he should do. Should he go in and warn someone? Should he try and stop Barnabas? Any idea he came up with was quickly dismissed; Barnabas was right here, right now, and anything Willie tried would be stopped, and then Willie would be dealt with in any number of unpleasant ways. He hung on to the steering wheel and waited.

It wasn't ten minutes before Barnabas returned, his face looking even longer than it had been when he'd told Willie that Maggie had escaped. He got into the back seat, and the sounds of him arranging his caped coat and his cane sounded very loud to Willie.

"Take me back to the Old House," Barnabas muttered.

Willie, about to start the engine, stopped. Ten minutes was hardly long enough to find the room Maggie was in, let alone do something to her. "Was she there?" he asked, cautiously.

"She was there, now, take me home."

"But, but what happened, Barnabas? Did you--"

"No, I did not. I want no more of your weary questions, Willie, take me home."

"So, she's alive." He felt the smile grow on his face as he reached for the keys in the ignition.

"No, she's dead." This said flatly, as if it meant nothing to either of them. "She died soon after arriving at the hospital."

The coldness shot through the pit of his stomach as if someone had lanced him open with a knife. "Sh-she's dead?" 

"Yes, she's dead."

"But how?"

"The doctor said she died of exposure and of malnutrition, and of shock. She never regained consciousness and died without telling anyone where she'd been." Barnabas seemed to think this was a good thing; his voice was full of satisfaction.

Willie's head sunk until his forehead was resting on the steering wheel between his hands. His chest was all tight and the thought of Maggie Evans, safe in her father's arms, swam in front of him. Safe alright, but dead just the same, dead and never hearing her father's voice call her name. Never knowing that she'd made it, made it home to Pop and Joe and the little Evans' cottage on a side street, with the vines across the windows that faced north to catch the very best light for painting. It hurt so bad that the sob escaped him before he could catch it and then another and then the tears were hot on his face and falling on the steering wheel.

"That'll be enough, Willie. I told you I didn't kill her."

"Y-yes you did," he said around hitching breaths. He couldn't stop crying. "You and I both, t-together. We killed her."

"She died of natural causes, Willie," said Barnabas, his tone getting sharper.

"Being stuck in that dark, drafty basement, being tortured for weeks on end?" He turned his head to wipe his face on his jacket sleeve, and the lights on the poles were like stars. "Th-that's not natural Barnabas, and you know it."

"Willie." There was a dark warning in the sound of his name.

"An' you tryin' to make her like you were, the whole time, telling her she didn't exist, that she could only exist as Josette--"

"Enough, Willie!"

But Willie couldn't stop. He suddenly didn't care what Barnabas said or did. He had had enough, at that moment, his head pounding behind his eyes, his heart in his throat, making it hard to breathe. "She once told me she'd rather die than become like you."

He heard the hiss of Barnabas' indrawn breath and went on.

"Yeah, you're angry. You're angry because she was stronger than you. She didn't become Josette, no matter how hard you tried. No matter what you did to her." He gulped in some air, gripping his hands on the steering wheel, twisting them back and forth. "Sure she went crazy resisting you, but she escaped, and she never became your Josette. She won, and you lo--."

The cold of Barnabas' cane pressed suddenly into his throat, jamming him against the driver's door, forcing his hands from their grip. All of his air was completely blocked off, and his words were cut off with a gurgle.

"You will cease your prattling," began Barnabas, his words perfectly measured, "you will start this car, and you will take me home. When we get there, you will remove all traces of that girl, and when you are finished, you will never speak of her again." The cane was pressed against his throat with just a fraction more force, and Willie began to see black spots on top of black spots in front of his eyes. "If I hear you speak even a single word about Maggie Evans, I will slice you to ribbons with this cane. Is that understood?"

He was being pressed into the window glass so hard he was afraid it was going to break. It was opened a tiny crack, and the cold night air was rushing over his forehead. He nodded. Tried to speak, but all that came out was a small, choked sigh. Barnabas let up on the cane, and he tried again.

"Yes, Barnabas." It was more of a gasp than a response, but Barnabas was apparently satisfied and he removed the cane and sat back.

Willie started the car, rubbing his throat with one hand and mourned Maggie Evans with silence as he drove to the Old House.

When he pulled the car into the drive, he stopped the engine, pocketed the keys, and got out of the car without waiting for Barnabas. He was tired, he had a headache, and he'd had enough. Barnabas was right behind him as he entered through the front door.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Willie stopped and turned around. He looked at Barnabas, seeing the man and the vampire all at once, the caped coat like dark bat wings in the dark light of the Old House, and the silver headed cane held in one hand catching and reflecting the light into Barnabas' face. The Old House never seemed so old as it did at that moment, cobwebs reaching down from the ceiling, the wood railing of the stairs bowed and cracked. To Barnabas it was a palace, full of history and dignity. To Willie it was a dump and a deadly trap from which he could never escape.

"You don't see things the way they are, Barnabas," he said in the darkness, "you see things the way you want to see them."

Then he turned on his heel and headed up the stairs, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

"And just what do you mean by that?"

"Just what I said," he replied over his shoulder, not stopping. "You see what you want to see, and you hear what you want to hear." It was obvious where he was headed, so he didn't answer that question, only slammed the door to Josette's room hard behind him, hoping Barnabas would take the very coarse hint and leave him alone, just for one night.

He knew a remark like that might normally be followed by Barnabas storming in on him and then laying him out for a beating. A pretty severe one, given that Barnabas' pet project had just up and died on him. If it weren't so sad, it'd be funny. But Barnabas didn't come in, and the Old House settled around the night with sighs of sagging wood and the grumble of decaying stone.

He surveyed the room, now lain over with a layer of dust, and cold with the absence of any occupant. There were a few traces of Maggie in the room, what any person would leave behind, a thrown shawl over the back of a chair, a half drunk glass of water, a dog-eared book on the table by the fire, or the strands of hair in the hairbrush on the vanity table. There was a piece of something sticking out from under the bed and he went over to it and picked it up. It was a scrap of lilac ribbon that had been part of Josette's gown once, the lilac sash that went around the waist, before he'd trimmed it to get rid of the ragged edges. 

It was very old and faded to the exact color of a sunset sky over the Appalachian mountains on a dusky, summer's night. He crumpled it in his hands as he sank into the chair next to the vanity table. No longer thinking about Barnabas marching in on him, or what he'd just said, or of anything about Barnabas at all. The ribbon smelled, ever so faintly, of jasmine, a scent with which he'd not been familiar before coming to Collinwood, and of Maggie. He wrapped it around his palm. There was enough of it to go around twice, and it was soft and supple enough so that the ends could be tucked between two fingers.

As he rubbed the cloth against his cheek, he knew that he would have to get rid of everything that Maggie Evans had worn, touched, or used. He was going to keep this ribbon though, tuck it away and tie her memory to him. He rested his elbow on his knee, and tucked his face in the curve of his arm, still seeing the shadows cast by the single candlelight flickering in the ever-present drafty air of the Old House. He wished it wasn't so cold, or that he had the energy to get up and light a fire in the place. That would warm the room pretty quick, but that would mean thinking and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He could have saved her a thousand times over.

She'd pleaded with him to let her go, to help her escape. She'd even once offered to escape with him, and have the two of them go far, far away. Together. To his shame, he'd denied her, each and every time. When she'd offered him the necklace Barnabas had given her, he'd been tempted, but because of the money, not because of any altruism on his part to set her free. He remembered how she'd talked about killing Barnabas so that they could both really be free. He'd looked at her eyes then, and they were as flat and dark as a cobra's before it strikes. She'd been so strong, and so beautiful and he'd been doing whatever she asked of him, on the verge of going upstairs so that she could finish the vampire off.

Of course he couldn't go through with it, and Barnabas, upon waking, had been evil and pleased to catch them at it. 

Barnabas.

And Maggie.

And him.

The day Barnabas had wanted to make Maggie his bride, she'd tried to kill the vampire. And Willie had stopped her. That same evening, Barnabas had threatened to kill Maggie. And Willie had stopped him. Each of them had been so intent on destroying the other, and he had stopped them both. He knew why. To protect Barnabas, because the sight of her standing over the vampire's coffin had made his heart feel as if it could stop any second, and set his nerves on edge as if there had been a thousand flies buzzing inside of him. And to protect Maggie, because the thought of her being tortured to death as Barnabas had described had been a little like dying himself.

What he didn't understand was _how_ he'd managed it, even as the memory of slipping between the vampire and the girl formed, unbidden, in his mind. It had been like stepping between the snake and the baby again, only this time, Barnabas' intentions had been quite clear, and death was imminent, instead of only being a ghostly fear all his own. And Maggie, clutching the wall, pressing herself against it, as if she could find a way through it to freedom, her body shaking behind him. 

He'd reached back, fingers almost clutching the silk and taffeta of her gown, arms protecting her. Barnabas could have broken both his arms with a snap and a flick, but all Willie'd been able to focus on was the feeling of her trembling behind him, desirable and forbidden at the same time. She made him feel, hiding behind him that way, as if he could take on the world for her. Or a vampire.

And then, when he'd turned her face toward Barnabas, and said _look how beautiful she is_ , she was. Even with tears streaming down her face, the veil falling to one side, and with cobwebs tangled in her hair, she was beautiful. Large, dark eyes, like looking at the night sky filled with stars, and face so pale, like moonlight, and her hair, like warm silk, spilling around in a way that made Willie want to take it up in his hands and bury his face in it.

This was obviously akin to what Barnabas had wanted to do, when Willie had reminded him of his beloved Josette. The vampire's face had changed when he'd looked at her, and Willie had seen, even if only for a moment, what it meant to Barnabas to have his Josette again. Something about that love, no matter how twisted it seemed, had been enough for Barnabas to be merciful, even if that mercy only amounted to not killing her outright. 

Burying his head even deeper in his arm, he wished, with all of his soul, that he could have dredged up more courage when it mattered, at a time when he could have set Maggie free, and maybe himself as well. To have used that courage to have made a difference.

But it was too late for that. Or anything else.

**Jason's Fifth Visit**

"Jason!"

The name jumped out of him, the shock bald and plain in his voice as Jason McGuire stepped through the front door, without knocking of course, and glared up at Willie from the bottom of the stairs. The things Willie carried in his hands, Maggie's blood speckled gown, her mud stained slippers, and stray hairs from the hairbrush, suddenly grew hot and heavy in his hands. It was hard enough to be doing what he was doing, cleaning out Josette's room of Maggie's things, thinking of her dead in the hospital, and so soon rescued and near freedom, without having Jason McGuire walk in on him.

"Get down here," snapped Jason, pointing at the floorboards near his feet. "I want to talk to you." His head was bare, and his raincoat was speckled with damp.

"S-sure Jason," said Willie, keeping his voice light. He balled the clothes up so that they were indistinguishable from cleaning rags and hoped it would be enough to fool Jason. His hands were sweaty by the time he reached the foot of the stairs, and he wiped them on the cloth before he threw the lump in the garbage bag he was keeping by the door and sealed it shut.

"What's up, Jason?" he asked casually, straightening. Facing Jason was one of the most difficult things he'd done in the last five minutes.

Jason's face was tight with suppressed fury, and he looked hurt, as if Willie had offended him somehow. "I don't suppose you've heard the latest news from the town?"

"Nope," he replied, starting toward the kitchen, the only place in the Old House where Maggie's things were sure to _not_ be. "Haven't left the house all day; haven't heard a thing."

A hard grip on his arm stopped him in the hallway, where it was dusty and dark. Jason whirled him around.

"So, I don't suppose you've heard the latest about Maggie Evans?"

He shivered and clenched his teeth, hoping that Jason hadn't noticed. "M-Maggie Evans? What ab-bout her?"

"They found her, Willie. And do you want to know where they found her?"

He didn't want to know, he really didn't. 

"W-where?"

"Oh the beach, Willie. On the beach below Widow's Hill. That's the beach right below the cliffs on which sits this very house. Now what do you say about that?"

Not swallowing, he tried on a smile. "Now, I don't know anything about it, Jason. Honest I don't." He closed his eyes hard, and inside his mind he pictured it, the sand, and the surf, and the trail leading down to the seaside in the moonlight. And Barnabas, standing over Maggie, who was, as she sprawled on the sand, completely unaware of how few hours were left to her life. He found he could picture it all too clearly. He opened his eyes to erase the image. "Ain't never been to the beach below no cliffs."

"I doubt that Willie, I doubt that very much. I'll wager that if the sheriff and his men were to make a thorough search they would find those cigarette butts down there that you love to leave about."

The conversation rang memory bells in his head, reminding him of another conversation that he and Jason had had, oh, so long ago. But this time he had a different reply.

"I don't smoke anymore," he said, pulling his arm out of Jason's grasp. "Mr. Collins doesn't like it."

"And I suppose His Nibs believes that you've completely given up the habit?" asked Jason, letting him go. "I doubt that very much indeed. And, for that matter, I don't believe it either. A man doesn't quit smoking just like that."

"There's nothin' to believe or not to believe."

"Fine," said Jason, apparently switching gears and tactics as his voice took on honey smooth tones. "But suppose you tell me now why you haven't yet asked how Maggie Evans fares?"

Willie opened his mouth. He hadn't asked before because, of course, he already knew. "How-how is she?"

"She's dead, Willie," said Jason, enjoying the dramatic flair of his statement. "She's died not three hours after being found. And do you want to know what I think, seeing your lack of surprise?"

"Lack of surp--?"

A hard thump landed in the center of his chest and stopped him. Another hard thump pushed him to the side of the hallway, his head hitting the paneling with a healthy bang.

"I think you killed her Willie, or you know precisely who did."

He wished suddenly, with all his might, that Barnabas would appear. The thought surprised him, because normally he hated it when Barnabas would appear like a jack-in-the-box, showing up when he was least expected and wanted. Willie knew that one word from Barnabas and Jason would go scuttling off back to Collinwood with his tail between his legs. But it was midmorning, and Barnabas was sound asleep, safe in his coffin, and any rescue Willie was hoping for was a million miles away.

"I didn't have anything to do with it, Jason," he protested, bringing his hands up.

"Yes, you did," Jason thundered, fists grabbing handfuls of shirtcollar. "You got that look in your eye, Willie. The one you get when you're lying. You know," Jason remarked, almost to himself, "you're a very bad liar for a criminal."

"That's funny, Jason, 's always what Barnabas says." He laughed under his breath. And it was funny too, in a weird sort of way, that both men noticed. In the past, he'd always been a very good liar.

"Not so very damn funny that you'd ruin all my plans!"

"Now wait a minute, Jason."

"I had big plans, and your little plans are going to have the law all over here. I told you once before you were to get out of town, to take the heat off me, and your insistence on staying is ruining everything."

Now the storm was starting, like the low pressure clouds that climbed over the cliffs of the Collinwood estate, rattling the trees and sending a wind to tell of the disaster to come.

"Big plans for lots of money, and here you go, murdering a poor innocent girl. And for what?"

Willie brought his hands up to grab Jason's wrists to try and push him away. "I haven't done anythin' to interfere with your plans, you know I haven't. I ain't done nothin' to ruin whatever it is you got going on up there."

"But you murdered Maggie Evans," said Jason, looking as if he were very sure of his facts. He let go of Willie only long enough to get a stronger grip. "Murdered her with your own two hands, and all for a pile of jewels that you've yet to make a profit from."

"I didn't murder her!" His snarl of protest was ruined by the break in his voice. "How could I, when she died in the hospital and I was miles away, huh?"

Suddenly everything froze. Jason loosened his grip at last, and let Willie go. Those Irish eyes smiled now, looking as if they'd hit the jackpot.

"Now how did you know that fact, Willie, when I never mentioned she died in the hospital? When you yourself said that you'd not left the house today?"

"You-you musta mentioned it."

"I _never_ mentioned it."

"Well then, maybe I figured it out, huh? Where else would they take her but the hospital, being in the shape that she was in?"

"Now how would you know what kind of shape she was in, Willie? How?"

_Because I saw her, only hours before she was about to be killed. Because I saw how pale and weak she was, and knew how she hadn't really eaten for days. Because I knew how her mind drifted in and out of sanity at every hour, and how she didn't really sleep. Because I knew that even the strong will of Maggie Evans couldn't withstand being told for days on end that she didn't exist. Or told that her father and Joe thought she was dead and that anyone who cared for her would soon forget about her. I knew, because I was there._

_And I couldn't do anything about it._

The thoughts remained silent in his mind, whirling around by some force that would not let them rest, would not let them fade into the whiteness and be lost forever. He looked up at Jason, and saw in that face the knowledge and guilt in his own heart. Jason, his friend of long standing, so recently an ex-friend, knew him well enough, almost as well as he knew himself. Jason was almost sure that he was involved in Maggie's death, so sure in fact, that Willie was almost tempted to tell him. Tempted to say, _yes, I did it, turn me in. Please._ Then it would be over.

But there was Barnabas to contend with. Even if he did tell Jason, and Jason, ironically enough, handed him over to the law, his detention and trial would not be enough to save him from Barnabas. Barnabas would find him, within hours perhaps, and he would either be painfully dead, or, what was worse, Barnabas would find a way to free him and have him declared not guilty. Then, for the rest of his life, he would be at Barnabas' mercy. Not that he wasn't now. And he knew he was as guilty of Maggie's death as if he had actually done it with his own hands. Just like Jason said.

He turned away, toward the wall, away from Jason, hands flat on the paneling, head tucked between them.

"I didn't have nothin' to do with it." His throat ached as he lied.

"And I say that you did." Jason grabbed him and whirled him around. 

Jason was right. He was so right it was scary. And the knowledge, coming from inside his heart to be heard on Jason's lips, pumped through his stomach like acid. His legs, as he turned to go toward the kitchen, were barely able to hold him. He sagged against the wall, unable to find purchase with his hands. And then Jason was upon him, smacking him alongside the head, boxing his ear, and with his eardrums ringing and heart pounding as if he'd been running, Willie fell on his knees to the floor. 

"You're as guilty as sin, Willie. It's one thing to take down a liquor store, or to rob people who have more money than they know what to do with, or even to dig up a body for the jewels on it. But it's another thing entirely to be involved in the murder of a girl who's done nothing to you, and particularly when you had nothing to gain by it."

Jason paused, his breath running hard. "Especially when it'll likely have the law swarming all over Collinwood, exactly at the time when I need them to be farthest from it."

It was typical of Jason to be more concerned about his own neck than the recent demise of someone he hardly knew. Willie couldn't blame him for that. But Jason was using his righteous indignation on her behalf to vent his frustration and anger, and this time his target was Willie. Normally Willie would have fought back, or volunteered to leave if paid enough. But this time, this time Willie knew he deserved whatever Jason was about to dish out. He would plead innocence, and Jason would believe him for form's sake, and then take the stuffing out of him anyway. Because he wanted to. And because Willie would let him.

He shuddered, pressing his head into the wood as he heard Jason step away to take off his coat. He couldn't move, didn't want to move, as he heard Jason walk back to where Willie still sat, huddled against the wood panels of the hallway.

_Maggie Evans is dead and I am as guilty as sin._

Jason stood over him. "Barnabas seems to be able to control you this way. Perhaps I should try it."

Willie looked up. Jason wasn't looking at him, but instead at his own hands, which were undoing the closure of his belt. With one move, his arm drew back and the leather strap slid through the loops of his pants with one, long, slithery sigh. Willie's heart seemed to stop in his chest. It would have been easy to take Jason's fists flying at him, perhaps get in a few stiff licks himself to retaliate. But at the same time, black eyes and bloody noses and bruises would be all too discernable to Barnabas' keen eyes. He would think that Willie'd been in a fight again, after being strictly told not too. And any punishment that Jason might deal out now would be a cake walk to what Barnabas would devise later.

"Please, Jason," he pleaded anyway, "I didn't do anything."

"Then why are you cowering on the floor as if you had?" Jason thundered, the end of his belt looped around one hand.

"B-because, b-because," he started, but he really had no answer, or none that he could actually tell Jason.

"You sicken me, Willie, you really do."

Willie closed his eyes, and hung his head. "Sometimes I sicken myself," he whispered, not caring if Jason heard him.

And then Jason was on him, ripping his shirt off, t-shirt falling in shreds, cloth moving harshly against the switch marks on his back, opening them with searing fire.

"Jason, no!" he heard himself say, almost as if he were far away. That earned him a smack across the head and he had to struggle to keep his face from hitting the wall.

"Looks like you've earned yourself another whipping recently," growled Jason. "But I told you I'd fix you good, and that's what I'm going to do."

He heard the belt whistle through the air before it struck him and ducked his head to take it across his bare shoulders. At all costs, he must not let Jason mark his face or anywhere that Barnabas might see, even if this meant allowing Jason to thrash him everywhere else. And Jason did just that, grabbing one arm to pull him into the middle of the hallway so that the belt could land anywhere and with full force. Jason was a big man, fueled with his anger, and fed by something else, perhaps the sight of Willie on the floor, face down, arms crossed over his head, taking it and not fighting back. 

Willie did not know what it was, but Jason's belt landed like it was alive, continually falling, laying stinging flames along his back and his legs, as if it had teeth of fire. Ripping open old wounds and laying new ones. Willie was beginning to feel sick from it, as the pain rose through his spine, and the heat cast a film of sweat along the back of his neck. He tried to move toward the wall, keeping his head down, when Jason kicked him in the stomach. Willie rolled backwards, heaving for air. Belt still falling, across his chest, his stomach, the front of his hips. And Jason kept him there, a foot across his throat, and Willie, arms still covering his head, could not move away. He could barely breathe, as leather connected with the tender flesh of his middle, across his crotch, feeling the scream building up in his brain that he could not quite release.

The damp air of the Old House was cool against his hot, fiery skin. But there was no relief in it, no softness in the cold. The belt was raising welts that Willie could feel, even as he was going numb, even as his head was shutting everything in his body down. Something bright red splatted in one long, dappled streak against the wall, and he tried to press up to move away as he realized that Jason was intent on beating him to pieces. Jason paused only long enough to kick him in the thigh, and Willie collapsed on his stomach, covering his head with his arms.

Jason McGuire had been a friend of his. The ragged, dark pain that was biting into him was doubled by the churning thought in his head. _You were my friend, you were my friend._

In Willie's book, an enemy might do this, and it wouldn't matter so much. A man could shake it off and walk away, as he had in the past, with Jason's help. It was hurting, what Jason was doing, but it was his heart that was breaking. Because at one time the feeling of friendship he'd gotten from Jason made him feel like he could do anything, anything at all. Go anywhere, conquer anyone. He knew that he would never, ever feel that way again. 

He'd sensed it, some time ago, that the friendship he and Jason'd shared was over, and yet he kept going back for more. It had started ending soon after their arrival at Collinwood, when both Jason and Willie'd realized that Jason was the far more refined, cooler-headed one, and that Willie's street fire and rude manners would bring Jason down. The separation had begun then, and it had torn Willie apart to realize that the friendship was ending when he didn't want it to. But if he'd have let go earlier, what was happening now would have hurt far less.

He gasped, his heart pounding against the floorboards, his breath drawing in and stirring the dust. Another solid kick from Jason, this time in his ribs, and as he curled away from the sharp pain and the sound of something snapping along one side, he realized that the floor beneath him was slick. Then he felt the band of leather being moved across the seat of his pants as Jason cleaned the blood off his belt. Willie panted, keeping his eyes closed, not wanting to see, not really, and not wanting to watch what he could hear as Jason put his belt back on. Faint clicks as the buckle was fastened, and the slither of suit jacket and raincoat as Jason reassembled himself.

"You're not leaving Barnabas, obviously, as he's got some sort of hold over you," said Jason, his voice thick. "But you stay away from Collinwood, otherwise there will be more where that came from."

Obviously, it had now become more about Jason McGuire and his great plans, and had very little to do with what had or had not happened to Maggie Evans.

Willie felt the tears rising in his eyes, and choked them back, swallowing furiously.

"Do you hear me?" Jason demanded, kicking him again in the ribs.

Willie took a breath and he didn't know what hurt more, his heart or his body. "Yeah," he managed, "I hear ya."

There was the sound of footsteps and then the slamming of the front door.

Alone. He was alone at last, but the feeling had a quality that it had never had before. Really alone, in the Old House, in Collinsport, in the world. Jason was no longer his friend, and he now had no one.

Except Barnabas, for whatever that was worth.

He rolled on his side, cautiously, feeling something trickle down his back at a slow rate, several small rivers of something hot, and tried to hold his breath. His ribs hurt too, now, and the small of his back was in knots. At least his face was unmarked, he realized as he moved his fingers across his cheekbones. Not a single twinge or bruise, no bloody nose or split lip. Even his forehead was unmarked except by sweat. Everything, all the pounding, throbbing welts and raised, broken flesh from Jason's belt, was from the neck down, and if he were very, very careful, nothing would show. Barnabas would never know because there would be nothing to see.

He sat up, using his arm to push away from the floor. It was slow going, and he felt dizzy, but he knew he had to get up and clean up, otherwise it would have all been for nothing. If Barnabas were to wake up and find him there, covered with bruises and sitting in a pool of his own blood, well, there was no telling what Barnabas would do. He would assume automatically that Willie was to blame and punish him for it. And as for wanting to have in his employ a man who was weak enough to allow himself to be beaten without fighting back, Willie didn't even want to begin to contemplate.

His throat closed up at this thought, thinking of Maggie suddenly, and several large, hot tears streaked down his face. He wiped at them with the inside of his forearm, and pushed himself to his knees. He looked down, finally, and though it was too dark in the hallway to figure it out completely, he saw that there were several dark, maroon smears soaking into the wood. His hands were in it now, and as he brought them to his face, they were stained with blood. The wall had two streaks as well, and he tried to think objectively of how best to remove the stains, even as he began shaking and his entire body broke out in a sweat.

Getting to his feet, he grabbed his shirt and stumbled to the kitchen and stood by the window that was over the sink where the light was coming in. His ribs were dark purple and there were curving stripes and large, puffy, white-rimmed welts encircling his stomach and chest and all of them were the color of deep bruises where the blood lies just below the surface of the skin. He wanted to throw up, but he swallowed and closed his eyes. It wasn't hurting so bad as he thought it might, he was numb all over, but the sight of his body, all rucked and torn, and the feel of his back growing slippery and damp with blood was making him sick. 

He knew he was bleeding. He was practically inured to the sight of blood, he really was, but it was always somebody else's blood that he'd been seeing, not his own. The sight of it made him lightheaded, as he carefully pulled on the remnants of his shirt. Pretty soon, though, the blood was going to soak through his shirt and his pants, and he really couldn't continue working until it had stopped.

With one hand on the sink counter, he ran the other through his hair and looked out at the window. It was starting to rain a bit, one of those light midday showers so common at this time of year. The ocean, without the usual winds, would be almost calm and passive under the gentle rain. And the salt water smell, rising with the incoming tide.

Before he could decide that it was a dumb idea, he went up to his room and pulled out some fresh clothes, dark pants and a turtleneck, from his dresser. Then he pulled out a towel, the one he usually took to the Y with him, and slung it over his shoulder. He went downstairs and with one twist of his hand, he opened the kitchen door and stepped into the rain.

By the time he'd stumbled down the sandy path, he was soaked through, rain from his hair dripping in his eyes, and the exertion had caused him to bleed a little faster. A hand across the back of his neck came away running with red, which the rain started to melt away instantly. He was feeling tired, both from Jason's beating as well as the walk down the beachhead. He stripped off his clothes and left them in a pile in the wet sand just beyond the highest point of the surf. He folded the towel and tucked it under the pile of clothes, knowing it would be wet when he got out but hoping that it would be a little bit dry anyway. 

Toeing off his shoes and socks, because it hurt too much to bend over again, he left them by his pile of clothes and stood at the edge of the water. Naked in the rain, the drops of water streaked down his body, feeling just a little bit colder on him than the air as they were picked up by the ocean and tossed around. He looked down once, to see the trail of redness as it made its way through the hair on his legs, and then closed his eyes and swallowed. And stepped into the ocean.

In its contrary and independent fashion, the ocean water was a little warmer than the air around it. He used his feet to find purchase among the rocks and the sand, and walked out far enough to be waist deep, keeping his eyes on the movement of the water. He was familiar with oceans and tides and such, and he could feel the pull and power of the water enough to know that he could never master it. Best to stay close enough to shore then and crouch down where the water was still gentle, until he was up to his neck and he could feel the sting of salt in his wounds. 

The salty spray from the water pounding on the rocks further out drifted over to wrap itself around his face, almost intoxicating enough for him to forget about how badly he'd been hurt. Almost, of course, but never quite enough. As the salt came in contact with the ragged, open flesh on his back and legs and front, it more than stung, it was on fire. He gritted his teeth and bore the fire out, likening it to the application of iodine he remembered from long ago that someone had put on nail scratches he'd gotten as a child. 

And it felt just like that too, like streaks of fire running along his insides, and up and down. Everywhere, on fire, at once. He almost got out then, tears running down his face, when he realized suddenly that, when one by one, the fire trails started to fade away. Instead of sharpness, they lowered and deepened into throbs. As if with his heartbeat. He heard himself sob with relief, and ducked his head down to taste the salt water with his tongue, almost kissing it.

He stayed that way for a time, the warm, tangy water rising with the incoming waves to wash over his jaw and neck, twirling through the hairs on the back of his head. If he let himself crouch any lower, the water could, if it wanted to, swamp over him entirely and drown him. He contemplated this for a bit, considering that it might be a very easy, albeit salty, way to go. At least he would be rid of Jason and the memory of Maggie. Of Barnabas, he feared he would never be rid. Even after death, Barnabas would find him and make whatever existence he had managed to find a living hell. This knowledge was permanently fixed in his brain, and it gave him pause. Better to rise from the ocean and dress, climb the cliff, and finish his chores for the day. And never give Barnabas any cause to doubt him. Surely that was the easier thing to do than to die.

Coldness began to set in and he realized he needed to get out now, even though his body cried for him to stay in and float away. The real pain began when he put his clothes back on, and the wet cloth scraped against his skin, digging in like nails. And then the walk up the path, as his body decided that now was the time that every nerve ending would come to life, was its own type of hell. Every step sent blood moving through him and it seemed he felt every single pulse of it, like acid, under his skin.

Back up at the Old House, he took off his shirt and sluiced away the salt water with cold water from the pump, shivering as the icy water ran down his chest and soaked his pants. In his bedroom, dry clothes were only a minor improvement, and this because they were dry. They scraped even harder, and everywhere that they came in contact with his skin was like a hot, iron brand pressing into him. But he had to finish cleaning out all evidence of Maggie Evans before Barnabas awoke, or the discomfort of his clothes pressing into him everywhere would be the least of his worries.

It was dark by the time he'd finished carrying the last of the evidence to the station wagon, and scrubbed the walls and floor of the hallway. The little cell in the basement had taken the longest time of all, not because there was a lot of evidence to remove, but because the sight of the turned-over milk glass on the floor had stopped him. One large shard of glass had broken away as it lay there, and the trail of milk lingered from it like a banner. He couldn't tell whether she'd drunk any at all, or if she'd knocked it over in anger, or if it had been knocked over for some other reason. There was no way to know, and never any opportunity to find out. He crouched down on his heels and put the smaller piece of glass inside the glass itself, and put a cleaning cloth down to sop up the milk. Pressing his hand on top of the cloth, he felt the tiny prickles of even smaller shards of glass as they worked their way through the cloth into his skin. It didn't matter though, his hand started to feel slightly numb as he wiped the milk from the floor. He could pick the pieces out later with the tip of a knife.

When he was done, he stood up and surveyed the room for one last check and headed upstairs. His head was reeling by that time, and considering the sharp jab he felt every time he took a breath, he decided he might also have a broken rib or two. And though his leg was not broken, it felt like it was bruised to the bone, and he had a hard time putting all of his weight on it. But he held his body straight as he told Barnabas that everything was finished, that all traces of Maggie Evans were gone. And then, as Barnabas thought he saw a child through the window, Willie wondered out loud what they were going to do and the fact that he was still shocked by the girl's death.

"Her death was a surprise to me," said Barnabas, "and I'm still not certain as to the cause."

"Aren't ya?" asked Willie, his anger getting the best of his self-restraint. "Well, I'll tell you - we're the cause. We put her through something no one should have to go through." And he knew it had been the both of them and not just Barnabas that had destroyed her. "I've done a lot of rotten things in my life, but nothing like this," he finished, almost not caring how mad Barnabas could get. "I hate myself for it."

"And me? Do you also hate me?" Barnabas asked.

"You know how I feel," Willie replied, his roughened skin rubbing so badly that any attempt of completely holding his tongue was overridden. He'd already told Barnabas all of this in the parking lot of the hospital. No sense saying it again now; the last thing he wanted was to upset the vampire all over again.

Whereupon Barnabas sent him outside as the vampire'd thought he'd seen a little girl through the window. Biting back any of the dozen smart remarks that were forming on his tongue, Willie did as he was told. And did find a little girl, dressed in odd clothes, though she didn't seem to know who she was or where she belonged, and she disappeared the second he turned his back on her.

He came back from the search on the grounds to tell Barnabas about the little girl, but he was gone. Willie managed to stay on his feet by doing odd chores, but only barely. He was just replacing the candles in the sitting room when Barnabas returned and asked about the little girl, and Willie told him, expecting that the vampire would have his usual reaction of anger and indignation that someone would trespass on the grounds of the Old House. Instead, there was a flicker in Barnabas' eyes, some bright, quiet flame that was there for only an instant and gone so fast that Willie realized he'd imagined it. The fire in his back was playing tricks on him and the haze in his brain had swamped his vision.

"Let us check on your work," said Barnabas instead, and Willie had to blink to keep a good focus on what he was saying, thinking for the first time in his memory that Barnabas sounded a little rattled.

Of course it was his imagination again, he realized as he limped as quietly as he could down the stairs after Barnabas. Jason McGuire's full-power charm never even made him bat an eye; a vague report of some kid on the grounds would hardly be able to upset him. And Barnabas, fully intent on his inspection, as he poked around the little cell, carried on as normal.

"There is still a slipper here," he announced, standing up with it in his hand. He turned his accusing eyes to Willie.

It was Maggie's slipper, one of the ones he'd bought for her on a trip to town after seeing her feet all cut up and sore. They'd helped some, keeping her feet warm and intact, but she had the habit of leaving them about the place as they would slip off and she wouldn't notice. He stepped forward to take it, when Barnabas jerked it back and slipped it inside his suit pocket. Like a memento, a lover's token, like Willie's own scrap of lilac silk. He didn't say anything.

Barnabas stepped forward to exit the cell, and Willie, caught off guard, stepped backwards and ran smack into the edge of the door, causing it to slam shut. Every nerve ending leaped to life, small fires each on their own, but when put all together felt much as he imagined a forest fire would, licking and flickering with a deep, red pain. He tried to hide this, to hide the expression that leaped to his face, and turned away, hoping that Barnabas would be so distracted by his own thoughts that he'd not notice. 

It was a full minute of heartbeats before he could get his breath back and he noticed that the room was completely silent, and that Barnabas had not moved. Lifting his head, he saw that Barnabas was not distracted at all. The vampire was looking right at him. At something beyond Willie, on the door, and at Willie's shirt.

Willie closed his eyes.

"You're bleeding."

There was no response to this that he imagined would make a difference.

"Look at me, Willie."

The voice could make him dance on razor blades if it wanted to; making him open his eyes must have been child's play for it. He looked at Barnabas. The vampire's eyes appraised him critically as he came closer.

"Why are you bleeding?" Barnabas asked, his fingers reaching out over Willie's shoulder to touch the stain on the door. Willie tried not to shrink away and failed. The vampire pulled his arm back and rubbed his thumb against his fingers. There was a light film of red there, enough to move across the skin, and to Willie's horror, Barnabas brought his fingertips to his tongue and tasted them. Then he was still, hand frozen in front of his mouth for a second before it dropped to his side.

"You were not in a fight," he said, decidedly, looking at Willie's face, "were you."

Willie opened his mouth, thinking that he wanted to at least attempt an explanation, but couldn't make it start. 

"Turn around," said Barnabas.

At Willie's hesitation, he reached out and shoved Willie around till he was facing the door, looking out through the bars into the short corridor beyond.

"Pull up your shirt," said the voice.

He tried, he really did, but his muscles, without feeling, could barely make his fingers tug the hem of it out from his pants, let alone make his shoulders raise it above his head. His hands dropped, and his head dropped, pulling at the skin along the back of his neck. Then he felt his shirt being pulled up, as Barnabas' hand kept him pressed against the door. As he struggled to remain standing, he grabbed the bars in the door, and lifted his head to lean against them. His shirt was almost all the way up now, and Barnabas pushed it until it was all the way to his neck. The coldness was no comfort to the hotness of his bared skin. The shadows from the two candles flickering continuously in the draft were making him dizzy, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head forward against the bars in the door.

Something, Barnabas' hand he imagined, brushed against him. It could have been the lightest touch possible, but shock waves pulsed through him, and he arched away from the touch, skin shrinking as it came into contact with the iron coldness of the door. Then his shirt was moved down over his body, and he was pulled around. Facing Barnabas, he noticed that the vampire was holding his hand in front of him, looking at it. It was red, and something dripped off it. Then he looked at Willie.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded.

He didn't know what to say. Didn't want to say anything.

"And don't tell me you fell off a ladder; I know better than that." Barnabas looked at his hand again, and as he did so, he said in low tones, "Someone did this to you and I want to know who it was."

This remark was not any indication on Barnabas' part that he cared. Willie knew this, instinctively. More, it was the reaction of a man whose territory had been invaded and he was saying, in essence, _no one kicks my dog but me_. Willie was his dog, and someone, someone other than Barnabas, had been kicking him. Had it been anyone other than Jason, anyone at all, Willie would have handed over the name without thinking about it. But Jason had been the one person he had been charged with keeping away, with fending off. And if Barnabas knew that he was failing and that he'd been failing all along, the vampire's wrath would be on his head. And the fact that Jason had been so cruel to him was something he did not want to admit to himself, let alone to Barnabas.

"Willie."

This was a warning and Willie knew it.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat, and allowed his eyes to close, just for a second. Then he opened them and looked at Barnabas.

"I don't know who it was." The words came out with a desperation he wished he didn't feel. His face was hot.

Barnabas' eyebrows lowered, and he looked puzzled.

"I don't," he insisted.

It was the vampire who broke their gaze, looking again at the blood, now nearly dried to a mahogany color, on his hand.

"Do you mean to tell me that a stranger did this to you?" Barnabas asked. "Why would someone do such a thing if they did not know you?"

Willie shrugged, and then winced as the newly-opened flesh along his back rippled. "I dunno," he managed. "Sometimes it happens."

Barnabas lifted his head to look at Willie again and his eyes were dark and unreadable.

"I'm tellin' you, I don't know," repeated Willie, his voice rising and catching in his throat as his head started to swim.

"I sincerely doubt that that is true, Willie," replied Barnabas, "And I will find out what happened and who it was, that I promise you."

Willie didn't care what promises the vampire made. There was no way he was going to be able to find out. Willie wasn't going to tell him, and certainly Jason never would. Barnabas was reaching for the door, and Willie moved to one side, realizing that Barnabas was furious. His expression was tight, the mouth a downturned scowl. The door was opened with a jerk, and Willie hesitated as Barnabas headed up the stairs.

Without pausing at the top, Barnabas snapped, "Upstairs, Willie."

He stumbled up the stairs, his left leg giving way under the strain, and in his haste, he tripped on the top stair and landed in a sprawl at Barnabas' feet. All his breath was knocked out of his lungs, ribs gripping him with iron fingers. His face banged against the floorboards and he began to bleed into the wood. And then his head began to feel as if it were packed in cotton, and the whiteness was beginning to close in on him. A whimper escaped him, and his head, heavy and cold, sank to the floor.

**In Willie's Room**

He awoke in his room, lying on his side, facing the fire, and found that he was quite warm. By the crackling noises from the hearth, he knew that there was a fire going, a big, strong fire, but he hadn't remembered lighting one. And when he opened his eyes, he realized that in addition to the fire there must be a dozen candles burning. He could smell them over the musty, burning coal, the evaporating wax leaving a faint, greasy scent in the air. His shirt was gone, and he was bare to the sheets that draped themselves airily against his chest and back, and his head was propped up by two pillows that he knew full and well had last been on Josette's bed. He let his head sink into the goose down, allowing himself an entire second of not trying to figure out how they'd gotten there.

The door opened, and Barnabas walked in. Willie froze for a second and shut his eyes, then felt the weight of a body on the bed, and opened them to look. He could just see the vampire's arms. His suit jacket was off, and he was in shirtsleeves and vest, with the sleeves rolled up, as if he were going to do some light carpentry, or help Willie hang drapes. In his hands he carried some folded white cloth, old drapes or sheets or something, which he placed on the marble topped nightstand next to the bed. He must have been done some digging around, for there was dust on his trousers. The vampire also carried a basin of water from the pump. Putting the bowl on the nightstand as well, Barnabas leaned toward him.

Instantly, Willie shrank back in alarm. His arm curved over his head, and, shivering, he tried to pull away.

"Hold still, you idiot."

Barnabas pulled his arm down, and held out something in his hand. He took Willie's hand, uncurled the fist that Willie had made, and put it in there. Then he raised Willie's hand to his mouth.

"Hold that there."

To Willie's surprise, it was an ice cloth. A thin piece of cloth wrapped around an ice cube. An ice cube? Barnabas must have gone over to Collinwood for it, walked in on Mrs. Johnson and charmed his way into her freezer. It was the last thing on earth Willie expected. But the ice felt good against his busted lip, so he held it there, head sinking into the pillow, and closed his eyes to savor the sensation of the pain, at least in that spot, fading away. The rest of the hurt places roared into life in comparison.

Behind his closed eyes, he could sense Barnabas there, the weight of his body on the bed, feel the coldness of the ice, and smell the salt and blood and dust. The faint odor of paraffin burned. Another cold cloth was placed on the back of his neck, and was held there by a large hand. That would stop the nosebleed, but he really didn't know what to think. He felt Barnabas move closer, heard him moving something, and he kept his eyes shut. Didn't want to look and see himself so close to the vampire, didn't want to see the expression on Barnabas' face. But the second that a warm cloth was being slowly and carefully moved across his shoulders, his eyes, of their own accord, flickered open and looked up. Let the ice cloth fall away.

Barnabas was reaching over his shoulder, wiping his back. Oh, so gently, his dark eyes on the job at hand, as if Willie were a stranger, just anyone that Barnabas had happened to come across. Which was fine with Willie, who suddenly wished he'd never met Barnabas at all. Not the first time he'd had that thought either, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but at the moment, he was very glad that Barnabas was treating him distantly. The hand at the back of his neck fell away, and the cloth stayed in place, trickling water down both the front and back of his neck and soaking his pillow. With two hands now, Barnabas tended him. Cleaning the blood from his back, soothing the welts with cold water.

The cloth moved across ragged, broken flesh, and he hissed, trying to move away. Damnit, it hurt like hell, and all at once his eyes began to water, and he reached up and pushed Barnabas' hand away roughly.

"D-don't, don't do that."

"This needs to be tended to," said Barnabas, quietly.

He looked up into Barnabas' eyes then. They were dark and still. Something infinitely sad and tired flickered there that went beyond the edges of Willie's memory. He didn't understand it. Didn't want to.

Barnabas looked away, and Willie was instantly nervous with that expression there, the tensing of the muscles in the upper arms, the fists made around the damp, blood stained cloth. Willie struggled to get up on one elbow, to move away, out of the range of Barnabas' vision, beyond the reach of those arms. The vampire turned to look at him again, and reached out one hand to clamp firmly on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the bed. And yet still he was gentle as he continued, his face like stone, yes, but hands caring as an angel's almost.

It was too much. Shaking, Willie sat up and pulled away, away from the kindness in those hands, and the careful way with which Barnabas tended to him. His back rippled in agony. Kicks he could take, and had, for many years. Rebuffs, slights, bruises, broken bones, all of it he was used to. From Barnabas he'd come to expect it even. What had brought this mercy on, he would never know. Didn't want to know. Only wanted it to stop, the softness, the care Barnabas took cleaning the blood from him. 

"Stop...please stop," he begged, and with shaking hands, reached up and grabbed Barnabas' wrists. Barnabas allowed himself to be pushed away, the cloth dangling in his hands.

Willie's nose had begun to bleed again, and his eyes to water, and he folded forward, with his head on his knees, arms wrapping around his legs till he was a very small ball. He let the blood from his nose and face drip on the mattress between his legs. One featherlight hand touched him on the shoulder and he shrank from it, breath coming in shudders, his chest heaving.

"Willie?"

"Leave me alone, please leave me alone, I won't do nothin', I just gotta, you just gotta leave me alone, please--"

His voice rose and became high pitched, and everything hurt. His chest hurt from holding back sobs, he hurt all over, his back from the blows of Jason's belt and his legs from the kicks, and his stomach hurt, for some reason, nausea turning it over and over in a swirling mass, until he was sure he was going to throw up.

Hands came to the sides of his head, and lifted his face till Barnabas was looking in his eyes. He knew they were full of tears, some of them trailing down his face, mixing with the blood, painting his neck with it. Tried to duck away, to look away, but those dark eyes held him, those hands held him, and there was no where to go. Panic rose in his chest.

"Barnabas, I--"

"Willie." 

The Thing was in Barnabas' eyes now, the dark, glittery Thing that reached into his mind and held him fast. Even without those hands on him, there was no way he could break away now. Not with Barnabas looking at him like that, not with that part of him, the inside of him, tethered fast like a boat in mooring. No tidal wave could pull at him, not even a hurricane could set him free.

His whole body was shaking now, face quivering, lower lip trembling, hard as he tried to stop it.

_He's going to do it again, he's going to hurt me._

And the thought of Barnabas using his belt, or getting the cane was too much. He struggled, sharp sounds pushing their way up his throat.

One hand moved across his forehead, a gentle stroke.

"Sleep now, Willie."

Grey fog suddenly danced in front of his eyes, seeming to be between him and Barnabas. And it was a strange fog, sweetly scented and warm against his skin. He could still see Barnabas, but could barely feel his hands.

Could barely hear his voice as he said again, "Sleep now, Willie."

The pain began to drift away, and his fear and panic with it. "Sleep and rest."

It was a good idea, it was a very good idea. His body slumped, and he could almost feel arms catching him, and laying him forward on his stomach, arranging his head on the pillows, somewhat damp, but still soft and comfortable. Soft sheets and a blanket, there was a blanket on him now, the wool one with the strip in the middle, and a warm cloth on his face and neck. And hands, stroking his forehead.

"Sleep."

Darkness.

He awoke, several hours later, by the short length of the candle at his bedside, feeling like he'd had an entire night's restful sleep. Most of the aches and pains had subsided to dull throbs, and his ribs felt entirely better. He didn't trust it though, feeling like the second he moved, everything would hurt again. So he lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows move across the moldy plaster, thinking about Maggie. She was better off dead, of course, than being trapped in the Old House. He knew that. And better dead the normal way than by Barnabas' hand. She'd once told him that she'd rather starve than become what he was.

She'd been furious and fighting that day, as he recalled. And dangerous as a tiger, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders. So angry, holding fast to her own truths. So defiant. So _alive_.

_No. Stop. Don't think about it._

He couldn't think about it or he'd go crazy, just like she did, in the end. Though it had been her insanity that had allowed her to slip through Barnabas' fingers. Something about being crazy, then, that had allowed her to break the vampire's chains that had been threaded into her mind. She'd run through the maze of underground passageways like she'd known exactly where she was going, according to Barnabas. Might be worth trying someday, if going crazy didn't terrify him so much.

With a sigh, he pushed himself to a sitting position. No headache assaulted him, no painful arms hugged at his ribs. Just a general soreness, as he might get when Barnabas had taken the belt to him. Nothing he couldn't work out of his system by moving about. He slipped on his shoes and his vest and headed down the stairs. It had been a kindness, strange as it seemed, that Barnabas had done him. Not only had the vampire taken care of him and made him feel better, he'd not yet pressed the issue of wanting to know Willie's as yet unnamed assailant. He didn't know what to make of it. Didn't want to ask either.

**Jewels for Friend Jason**

A sarcastic remark about the great plans of the great Jason McGuire backfiring had been, of course, the wrongest thing to say when he saw Jason again. Jason's hands had come up threateningly, and Willie couldn't keep himself from shifting back and moving out of range of those hands. But what scared him more than that, more than the physical threat, was the fact that Jason seemed to know everything that was going on at the Old House. He knew all about Barnabas' plans, even the ones that hadn't worked out. Like Maggie Evans. And naturally, he found Willie even guiltier than before, since he'd heard their conversation through the window.

As he left Jason in the woods, with his promise to meet Jason at noon the next day with jewels in hand, he wondered how he would be able to keep this promise. His erstwhile friend wanted not just one or two jewels, but handfuls of them. 

The Old House seemed to loom in the moonlight as he walked toward it, and his shoulders hunched of their own accord. He wouldn't tell Barnabas about his seeing Jason in the woods, nor his meeting with him the next day at the Blue Whale. That would be the easy part. But the jewelry that Jason wanted, how to get that? He now knew where Barnabas kept his entire stash of valuables, had opened the wall in the cellar himself upon occasion, had put back Barnabas' mother's brooch when Barnabas' investments had earned him enough to pay back the bank loan. But the thought of stealing anything, even when the access was so easy, well, it was impossible. Barnabas would know right away that something was missing, and would know who had taken that something. Or would he?

Slinking in the front door, he made to tiptoe up the stairs, but Barnabas, waiting in the sitting room, called to him.

"Willie."

He stopped and took a deep breath. Took his foot off the bottom stair.

"Yes, Barnabas?"

Barnabas came closer to him, hands behind his back, his expression unreadable. "Did you find anything?"

"No," he shook his head, "no little girl."

"Are you sure?" asked Barnabas, the doubt thick in his voice.

Willie sighed, trying to hide his irritation. "I told you, I looked everywhere. No little girl." Shaking his head, he added, "Don't know why you'd think a little would be wandering around this time of night anyway."

_In the dark, anywhere near your house._

As he thought this, Barnabas moved toward him in an eyeblink, and the anger in his eyes startled Willie. 

"Are you being insolent?" he demanded, shoulders coming forward and one hand clenching and unclenching as if to strike.

Willie backed away, just out of reach, shaking his head, but Barnabas grabbed his jacket. Pulled him close with one jerk of his arm.

"N-no, Barnabas, I was just sayin'--"

His words were cut off with a click of his teeth as Barnabas let go of him and pushed him away. He landed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, the heels of his shoes slipping on the wood of the floor.

"Be quiet, Willie," snapped Barnabas, "and pay attention."

Nodding, he tried not to swallow his nervousness away. Barnabas was in a mood that balanced on the edge of explosion and Willie knew that he would have to walk a very fine line not to be the target of the fallout.

"There is a shipment that I ordered being delivered to Bangor. The fools insist that Bangor is the final destination. I want you to go tomorrow and wait for the shipment to arrive."

"Wh-when will it be there?" he asked, the heaviness of his stomach increasing.

"Ten-thirty," replied Barnabas, "eleven at the latest."

"But, no--" he started, and then stopped as Barnabas looked at him. "I mean, what's so important about this, can't it wait?"

"No, it can't wait," said Barnabas, cross. "And I particularly don't want it waiting at the shipping docks for those idiots to destroy with their carelessness."

He turned away to go into the sitting room, leaving Willie against the wall with his mouth open, wondering how in hell he was going to coordinate all of this.

"What is it," he asked, cross himself, "gold?"

"That's enough, Willie," said Barnabas, not even sparing him a glance. "And it's none of your business, really, but since you asked, it's an antique lap desk from England for Miss Winters. A very fine, very valuable piece that I don't want risked to the careless hands of dockworkers."

"Miss Winters." Willie said this almost to himself, feeling the dull, slow throb of a headache building.

Barnabas went over to the desk, disappearing for a moment from Willie's view, and then he came back with a piece of paper. He shoved it in Willie's hand.

"That's the bill of lading. Don't loose it; the desk is not insured."

Willie kept himself from rolling his eyes, he wasn't sure how. But surely better that than a smack from Barnabas that would bring his headache into pounding reality instead of just a quiet threat.

"What if it's late?" he asked.

"Then wait for it, and don't come back without it, do you understand?"

Of course, it would be late, he knew it would, what with Jason camped out at the Blue Whale with all the secrets that he knew just waiting to be revealed. Somehow, now did not seem a good time to tell Barnabas about Jason.

"Well?" 

Willie looked up. Barnabas was waiting for his answer, wanting Willie to say that yes, he understood. As if he would ever say anything to the contrary.

"Yeah, I understand."

"And when you get back here, I want you to make sure it's in working order, and that the wood is smooth. I bought it sight unseen, and I want it to be perfect for Miss Winters when I give it to her tomorrow night."

Worse and worse. The desk would take hours he knew, from his experience other pieces. Even something small, like an end table, might require complete stripping and revarnishing, and then there was the time needed to dry between coats. If he didn't get back right away from his visit with Jason, the desk would not get finished by sunset. And Barnabas hated it when he had to wait on Willie for something. Especially something like this.

"What is it, Willie? Is there a problem?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head as if everything were alright. "No, there's not a problem."

But there was, of course. On top of everything else, when was he going to get a chance to sneak into the basement to pull the bricks out of the wall and get at the jewels? And then, how was he going to figure out which one he could take that Barnabas would be least likely to miss? 

He used to like going for drinks with Jason.

Not any more.

**The Mouth of Hell**

"Go ahead," Willie growled. "Open it up."

Jason paused for a minute, as Willie glared at him. His arm ached from being twisted and something was building in him like a fever. He felt hot all over, and he was shaking as he held the jewels in his fist. Yes, he hoped Jason McGuire would open the coffin and find out exactly what price he would pay for a handful of jewels. Certainly a lot more than he was bargaining on, that was for sure. Willie found that a part of him simply couldn't wait for it.

Jason leaned into it, his hat slipping and then he pushed it back with one hand. The lid was heavy, as Willie well knew, and he watched as Jason strained against it. When at last it was open, Jason looked inside, expecting, as Willie had, to see a dead body and a pile of jewels. Of course, what he was seeing was a live body and no jewels. The look on his face probably mirrored the one on Willie's own when he had gone to the tomb the first time. And Barnabas reacted the same this time; he reached up with one hand and grabbed Jason around the neck. Willie's pleasure at this sight turned to shock as he realized that Jason was now a dead man.

"Wait, Barnabas--"

Barnabas sat up in his coffin, hand still on Jason's neck. When he went to ease his legs over the edge, Jason twisted away, coat in a tangle, his eyes wide with fear. But Jason, being Jason, said with aplomb, "I had no idea your eccentricities went this far, Mr. Collins."

Of course, Jason couldn't possibly believe that this was mere eccentricity on Barnabas' part, could he?

"But then again, you always seem to enjoy being the man of mystery, didn't you."

Barnabas, now out of the coffin, stood next to it, taking Jason in with his dark gaze, seemingly not fooled for a second.

"And you, Mr. McGuire, have always enjoyed solving a mystery, haven't you. How are you enjoying this one?"

Willie shifted from one foot to the other. The cat and mouse game had begun again, and while the outcome was strongly in Barnabas' favor, it would not be a pretty fight.

"Very well, thank you, now that I've discovered the answers to all of my questions."

"Oh?" asked Barnabas, his eyebrows rising. "And what questions might those be?" His tone was smooth; he sounded amused, to Willie's astonishment, as if Jason's intrusion into his very most private space bothered him not one jot.

Straightening his coat like courtyard pigeon would its ruffled feathers, Jason smiled. "Questions needing answers that my boy Willie here has been very loath to give."

Willie flushed hotly at this remark, for the first time understanding how Jason saw him. How Jason considered Willie his property, his to control and do with as he pleased.

"Such as?"

"Such as, where you got all your money, when you had no obvious means of employment, nor took any from the Collin's account. I checked, you know."

"I'm sure that you did," replied Barnabas, nodding.

"And then there was the question about Maggie Evans' disappearance, a moot point now that the girl is dead."

He waited for a reaction from Barnabas on this, but there was none. The vampire's face was smooth and still, eyes glittering in the candlelight, hands folded in front of him.

"Well, then, there was always the question about where you went during the day."

"And now you know."

"Yes, I know it now." Jason grinned, all of his teeth showing and pushed his hat back to a jaunty angle on his head. "And then there was always the question as to how you managed to order Willie around, make him fetch and carry for you. I'd still like to know how you managed that."

Willie started, his eyes darting from Jason to Barnabas and back again.

"And I should just tell you," remarked Barnabas, looking sideways at Willie, eyes narrow.

"Well, you said you'd tell me sometime, as you recall."

"Yes, I do recall it."

But he seemed unprepared to explain himself further, or to offer comments as to the control and management of his manservant. A small silence grew in the semi-darkness.

Jason coughed. Willie recognized that cough from Jason, it signaled nothing but ill, it signaled Jason gathering his forces and his wit all in one ball. And it signaled trouble.

"You seem somewhat reluctant, Mr. Collins, to share any real information with me. Perhaps you don't realize the situation you are in?"

"I entirely realize the situation that I am in," replied Barnabas, unfazed. "It is you who do not realize the situation that _you_ are in."

"Yes," answered Jason, nodding. "I realize it. I've discovered the madman who has been terrorizing this town until decent folk cannot go out after dark. I turn you in, and I'm a hero. It's so easy when you understand things properly." He turned his head to look at Willie, who was trying to stay in the shadows by the stairs.

"Go over to Collinwood and call the police, Willie," he said with authority, turning his eyes back to Barnabas.

Willie couldn't move. Not just because he was terrified, but because he knew he couldn't obey Jason. Not this time. And Jason wouldn't like that, no, not at all. He would not want Willie defying him with an audience.

Seeing that Willie was frozen where he stood, Jason snapped, "Don't make me get rough with you again, boy, do as I say. Go call the police."

Barnabas hadn't moved either, but he was looking at Jason and not at him, so Willie had very little idea what he should do. Should he stay where he was, or should he go upstairs and let the two of them duke it out?

"I said _go_ ," barked Jason. Willie didn't move.

"Again?" Barnabas asked, his eyebrows rising. "And what do you mean by that?" He had, at last, found out who had been kicking his dog. He looked at Willie.

Jason almost laughed at this remark. "Oh, don't pretend the boy didn't come whining to you the first time I had to take him down a peg or two. He needs it, you know. Being kept in his place."

Willie, suddenly cold, wiped at his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and found Barnabas' dark, intense eyes on him. He froze.

"Certainly," said Barnabas, dryly, his gaze on Willie but his words directed at Jason. "Every servant needs to be reminded of their place from time to time, by someone of a higher rank. You'll get no argument from me on that, I assure you."

There was a wide grin on Jason's face. "Ah, a man of breeding, I could tell that right from the start."

"But," interrupted Barnabas, one of his hands making a small arc in the air, "it takes not only breeding to train a servant properly, it takes wisdom and restraint. A man of breeding does not take his temper out on a servant. It would be," here he paused, taking his eyes from Willie at last and setting them on Jason, "it would be beneath him."

"Then I suppose," said Jason, his voice sharp with sarcasm, "you're trying to tell me that you've never lost your temper with him?"

Of course, Jason knew the answer to that, had come over after Barnabas had beat him very badly with the cane. That beating had been with a temper and with a vengeance and Jason knew it. Willie knew it. And Barnabas knew it.

"I'm not telling you anything of the kind," remarked Barnabas, not apologizing, "only that with rank over another man comes the responsibility to the man. A responsibility that you, Mr. McGuire, haven't the faintest inkling of."

"I have the responsibility to make sure he doesn't get involved with the likes of you!" Jason's voice became a growl, and to Willie it seemed as if he rather enjoyed the righteous indignation he was apparently feeling on Willie's behalf. And there was nothing he liked better than a verbal sparring match he was sure to win.

"How very magnanimous of you, I'm sure. But it's too late for that, I believe."

Here Barnabas paused to move a little closer to Jason. Now he was closer to Willie as well; Barnabas' profile was in his direct view. In Barnabas' eyes glittered the Thing. Jason couldn't see it for what it was because he hadn't been bitten by Barnabas. For one horrible second, Willie thought that this was what Barnabas meant to do, and then realized it wasn't. Barnabas, when stalking, hid the Thing. Here it was in plain sight, as if he wanted to show Jason what he was and wasn't afraid if Jason knew.

"So tell me, Mr. McGuire, what did you do to my manservant to take him down a peg or two?"

This puzzled Jason, Willie could tell. His brows furrowed into one huge wrinkle on his forehead, and he looked around him a bit as if searching for the answer. "Well, I don't recall, exactly," he replied, regrouping quickly, the smile coming out again. "But you had less trouble with him, I'm sure."

The vampire suddenly turned and was next to Willie, eyes dark, his head bent forward. His voice was quiet, as if asking Willie a secret. "What sort of things did your friend, Jason McGuire, do to you, Willie?"

The Thing was aimed at him now, pulling at his thoughts with insistent fingers. Cold air shot itself into his bones, and he was trembling before he could stop it. Barnabas' gaze was like a knife in his head, pushing, pushing inward. A quick glance at Jason told him that the other man was enjoying this small turn of events. Enjoying watching him about to be roasted alive. And knowing that he would never, ever tell.

Barnabas was looking at him like he expected an answer. A look like that when not followed quickly by acquiescence was soon followed by something far more dire. But there was no way he could tell. And not just because Jason would enact a quick revenge for ratting either. It was the same way it had been in prison, and even though he wasn't in an actual prison, he was still in a virtual one. And the code remained the same, regardless of where he was: never tell. If Barnabas ever knew what Jason had not only done to him but been allowed to get away with, Willie could not face him. Let alone anyone else, but to have Barnabas know would break him quicker than the switch had done.

He took a deep shuddering breath. And looked up into Barnabas' eyes.

"Please, Barnabas," he said as clearly as he could, given that he was trembling from head to foot. "Please, don't ask me."

Barnabas was absolutely still. For a full span of heartbeats he remained that way, looking at Willie, face of stone, dark eyes like glittering, black diamonds. Willie found that he could barely breathe. Then, with a flick of eyelashes, Barnabas moved away from him. Toward Jason McGuire. Grabbed him by the throat and pushed him up against the brick wall. His hat fell off unnoticed by either man.

"My manservant Willie is somewhat reluctant to be very forthcoming, Mr. McGuire. Would you be so kind as to fill me in on the details?"

"Barnabas, NO!" Willie lunged forward to grab Barnabas' arm, to pry the fingers from Jason's neck. Jason would tell, and then Barnabas would kill him.

"Be _still_ , Willie!" the vampire hissed, his fangs showing.

Willie backed away instantly, eyes wide, hands up to his head as if to contain the pounding there.

"Now, Mr. McGuire, you tell me what I want to know, and I may yet let you live."

Gasping for breath, Jason appeared to contemplate his options. And Willie knew that either Jason wouldn't tell and he would die, or he would tell and he would probably live. And he knew that Jason, being Jason, would take the ticket that allowed him to live. Willie hung his head and dropped his hands. Jason might not be a man who kept his promises, but he certainly was predictable when it came to self-preservation.

"Willie," began Barnabas, "sometimes showed bruises from beatings that I did not give him and that he likely did not deserve."

Jason looked uncertain as to whether this required an answer or not.

"He never mentioned your name, but now I realize it was you who had been beating him."

Turning a little blue around the lips, Jason had the stirrings of panic beginning in his eyes.

Barnabas' voice was mocking. "And yet I cannot recall ever seeing Willie behaving as if anything unusual had happened. Oh, to be sure, I thought he'd been in a fight a time or two, but never anything he'd been unable to handle, or that seemed as if it had gotten out of hand. Now, Mr. McGuire, would you please enlighten me with the details?"

He let Jason go to nearly collapse at his feet, hands massaging his throat, breath coming in huge gulps. 

"If you please, Mr. McGuire," said Barnabas, his impatience ruining the politeness of his words. "All I want is for you to confess it."

Half bent over, head down, Jason muttered something.

"What was that?"

Barnabas tipped his head forward, and grabbed handful of Jason's raincoat. Jason's mouth was next to Barnabas' ear, and he said it again.

"Yes, I beat him with my belt," said Jason, almost gasping.

Barnabas' eyes narrowed. The vampire's back became ramrod straight and he let Jason go in the way that a man will drop something that disgusts him.

"That's enough, Mr. McGuire," he said. "Your time is up."

"But you said--"

"Rank has its responsibilities," Barnabas replied, his voice level, "but it also has its privileges. I changed my mind."

Barnabas held Jason by the collar, and gave it several, stiff jerks. "You have caused my cousin Elizabeth undue pain and suffering. You have swindled the Collin's family out of a great deal of money."

His face came nearer to Jason's, and his voice became lower. "What is more, you have abused my manservant, and apparently not just once, but several times." His voice became a growl. "Willie belongs to me, and I protect what is mine."

Before Jason could protest, Barnabas released the hold he had on Jason's coat. Jason stepped away as if to flee, and slipped, coming close to Willie, as Willie struggled to move out of the way. Then Barnabas grabbed Jason and, his hands slipping around Jason's neck, snapped it with one hard squeeze. The dull crack could be heard quite clearly, and Jason didn't even have time to gasp before Barnabas let go and the body fell to the stones.

It lay sprawled on the floor of the cellar, one arm limp against the dark base of the coffin stand, the other across his chest. Willie had seen dead bodies before, but this was the first time he'd gotten a long, clear look at the dead face of someone he knew. And he wasn't sure how to take it, how to react. Jason was someone he'd known a long time, but he wasn't someone that Willie, of late, could have called a friend. A long time ago, perhaps, before they'd come to Collinwood, but not since then.

"Is he--?" Willie began, but stopped. The truth was painfully obvious.

"Yes," replied Barnabas, as if relishing the words, "he's dead."

"You killed him," Willie said. "You killed him."

"How could I let him live?" came Barnabas' voice, floating somewhere behind him. There was venom in that voice, and not directed at him, for once. "He knew too much."

"He's dead," he said again, hardly believing it. "Jason's dead."

"What was he doing down here?"

Now came the questions, and recriminations. The one time he'd worked as hard as he could to protect both Barnabas and Jason was the one time that they met to see each other as they actually were. It hadn't worked, protecting Jason from Barnabas. Nor Barnabas from Jason.

"I had to bring him here," said Willie, even though he knew it would not be enough.

" _You_ brought him here?"

"I had to, Barnabas."

"Why?"

"He saw the jewels," Willie began. "He was prowling around outside last night; he saw them through the window. He was crazy to have them." He did not dare mention Maggie.

Barnabas looked at him, eyes dark, the Thing alive and well. The air in the cellar seemed very still.

"I should punish you, Willie."

The vampire came closer, threatening.

"No, Barnabas," begged Willie, backing up, one foot behind the other till his back was against the wall.

"Your job is to guard me, and you placed me in danger."

"I couldn't help it! He made me bring him here, he would have killed me if I hadn't." The last thing he wanted was to hand his belt over to Barnabas and get a whipping with Jason's body not three feet away, cooling fast. He'd really tried to be good this time, with all of his might, and still it had turned out wrong.

"If you betray me again," snarled Barnabas, grabbing him by the throat, "you'll meet a far worse punishment. Do you understand?" There was a pause as Willie nodded his compliance and then Barnabas unexpectedly said, "I'll deal with you later." He looked down at the form on the floor and let Willie go. "The job at hand is how to dispose of McGuire's body. He must be buried in a place where no one will find him. Where his body will not represent a danger to me."

It was an unholy relief to have Barnabas' attention turned elsewhere. "Well, where can you bury him?"

"We'll take him to the Collins' tomb."

"The tomb?"

"We'll bury him in the secret room. That secret room has been undiscovered for almost 200 years. They'll never find him there."

Willie bent down to pick Jason up and then jerked upright and turned away.

"What is it, Willie?"

"I can't touch him."

"You constantly surprise me. Are you squeamish about death?"

"He was my friend."

"Your friend?" asked Barnabas with mock astonishment. "But you told me he tried to kill you."

"Yeah," agreed Willie, "but a long time ago before we came here, we were friends. Good friends."

"You really are appallingly sentimental," said Barnabas, as if this were a bad thing to be.

Willie turned around, whirling to face Barnabas, his hands becoming fists. "Now you wouldn't understand."

"Why, because I've never had a friend who died?"

"Did you?" asked Willie, his curiosity melting part of the tight knot inside of him.

"Yes, once. Long ago." There was the sound of an emotion in Barnabas' voice that Willie did not recognize.

"Was it Josette?" His daring was going to get him into trouble, he knew it was, and yet the question came anyway.

"No, she lived long before I knew Josette. She died when she was very young. And very innocent. She was very dear to me."

Now it was Barnabas who was turning away, as if the conversation had suddenly become too painful to share it with another human being. "I mourned her death for a long, long time."

"I've never heard you talk this way before. You sound almost--"

"Almost human?" Barnabas turned back to face him, the Thing flickering there.

"I wasn't going to say that," said Willie, quickly, even though he had been.

Instead of a reply to this, Barnabas' face shifted, the Thing vanishing to be replaced by the usual stone mask. "Well, this isn't getting our work done," he said.

Willie bent down again, looping his arms beneath Jason's shoulders and lifting when Barnabas lifted. The body was heavy, and Willie found he was shaking. Jason was still warm under the armpits. Tucking his head into Jason's neck, he could still smell the faint cologne, the bit of whisky that Jason must have drunk earlier in the evening, and the faint Jason-ness that still clung to him. They had been friends once, before Collinwood. Maybe not the ideal friendship, with Jason being mean a lot of the time, pushing him around, but it had been a solid one. Between Jason and him, Jason had always gotten the better end of the deal. But he was always better off with Jason than without him. And between him and the world? Jason had always been on his side.

They walked up the stairs and out the front door. It was night, of course, the cool of late September in Maine. Willie opened the rear door of the station wagon and they tucked the body in the back beside the long strips of lumber and covered it with an old blanket. The drive to the cemetery took a little longer than usual, as Willie took the back roads all the way there. No one was about, of course, the cemetery was deserted, and together they carried Jason's body to the secret tomb. 

With a shovel, Willie dug a hole deep enough to keep the body and shallow enough to make it a quick job. It wasn't that Jason didn't deserve to die, he most certainly did. But Willie would have preferred it if Jason's death had had nothing to do with him whatsoever. Death freaked him out, and ever since he'd been in Barnabas' employ, he'd been surrounded by it. Every day.

"Say farewell to Jason McGuire, Willie. It is ironic that a man who loved life and his freedom as much as he, should end up in a narrow, unmarked grave."

"'S funny," said Willie, in response to this. "He was always curious about this tomb. Now he knows the secret."

Then all of a sudden, it wasn't funny anymore. Jason McGuire, his oldest, if not dearest friend, was dead.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

"What's the matter, Willie?" asked Barnabas, his voice cold. "Don't you like it here?"

"I just want to go."

Barnabas relented almost instantly. "Alright." He paused behind Willie as he headed out through the door. "Goodbye, McGuire. You might have lived, but your greed destroyed you."

It was a relief to leave the cemetery, and Willie couldn't help walking fast, keeping right on Barnabas' heels all the way out. In the car, Willie held the steering wheel in his hands, hardly feeling it, only sensing that he was moving it, making minor adjustments to stay in the road.

"I should still punish you for your actions earlier this evening," Barnabas said. "Disobedience such as bringing someone to the very side of my coffin deserves a whipping."

Willie nodded, eyes still on the road. "Yeah," he sighed, "yeah, I know."

As they passed the crossroads, Barnabas raised his cane, and pointed to the road with it.

"Let me out here," he said.

He got out and walked around to the driver's side. He looked like he wanted to say something, so Willie rolled the window down. The cold, damp air leaped in at him as Barnabas leaned down.

"Wait for me at the Old House. I won't be long."

It wasn't a request, it was an order and one Willie didn't hesitate to obey. Not like he felt like disobeying anyway. Jason was dead and it was, in large part, his fault. He himself had brought his friend of many years down to the vampire's lair. At sunset. Told him to open the coffin, and it had killed him. Willie drove as fast as possible through the growing rain to the Old House. As he neared the house it began to rain harder, and by the time he'd parked the car in the drive, it was almost sleeting.

He hurried inside and went directly to the drawing room to light the candles. They gave off a cold light indeed, a pale yellow, and he realized he was freezing. His nose and fingertips were red and numb with cold and his jacket was soaked through. Barnabas, out for a feed, would probably be a while, and though the vampire didn't need a fire's heat, he enjoyed having them lit for him. An already lit fire might sooth his temper a little.

Grabbing the coal scuttle from the drawing room fireplace, Willie walked to the kitchen and filled it from the half-empty bag of coal. Coal dust instantly settled on his wet, white shirt, and left smudges on his arms and face. Not to be helped; he'd have to wash up later. Going back to the drawing room, carrying the coal scuttle carefully so as not to spill it, he sat back on his heels to lay the coal. Piling it in a small mound, he laid the tinder beneath the grate. When this was done, he struck a match and lit the tinder.

With everything that had gone wrong recently, the newly lit fire was a small, bright miracle. The tinder caught, and then the coal smoked and caught, and pretty soon the coal's blue and white flames were lighting the hearth. The heat of it began to reach him, thawing his hands and face, drying his hair and the leather in his shoes. He moved to sit on the hearth itself, one leg down at an angle, the other propped up so he could wrap his arms around it and rest his forehead against his knee.

The flames were moving and flickering in a slow way that made him sleepy, his eyes half shutting and then snapping open when he realized that Barnabas was probably going to kill him this time. Jason had been their most troublesome visitor, outside of David, and since everyone else had mostly fallen under Barnabas' spell, the vampire had no more immediate threats to trouble him. He would now have time to kill Willie, to dispose of the body, and then find a new manservant. All at his leisure.

The thought made his eyes sting hotly, and he furiously took the heel of one hand and rubbed very hard. And why should he care? Wouldn't he be better off dead? After all, hadn't he been the cause of Jason's death? And of Maggie's?

The thought of her sweet face and those big, brown eyes the last time he'd seen her, in her little cage. Her hair in a tumble around her shoulders, that dusty, black dress rough against her skin as she sat on the edge of the hard bunk, babbling like a chipmunk. And he'd screamed at her to be the way that she was and to stop pretending. He'd liked her better before, when she thought he was worm dirt and considered him to be a beast. When her sympathy for him would cause her to serve him breakfast, but not to become his friend. He preferred the strong, tough Maggie, not the five-year-old in a woman's body, cheerful and obedient. 

In that second, when the silence fell after his shouts had ended, he'd realized that the Maggie he'd known was gone. So when Barnabas had said he'd have to dispose of her, Willie'd not said _over my dead body_ as he had the time before. Because the Maggie he'd defended then seemed to have completely disappeared.

He should have, could have done something. Barnabas would have killed him then, he knew. But he was going to kill him now, anyway, so what was the difference? His death might have been worth something then, been worth the saving of Maggie's life. Even if she'd been crazy insane, her father would have moved heaven itself to get her better. She would have had that chance at least, if he'd helped her then. Now she had no chance. And neither had Willie.

He must have dozed off, for he started at a noise, realizing he was baking with heat on one side and almost freezing with cold on the other. His forehead was numb from being pressed against his knee. He opened his eyes. And saw a pair of shoes with legs standing on the hearth next to the fire. Not even three feet away from him. Absolutely still, the feet were and the legs too, as if frozen. Which they couldn't be, given the heat banking off the burning coal fire. Outside, the sleet bounced against the windows, and once in a while some of it managed to find its way down the chimney, hissing and popping as it hit the fire.

He raised his head, his eyes travelling as far as Barnabas' fingertips and then lowered his head again, resting his cheek against his knee and stared into the fire. Now Barnabas knew that he was awake and aware. It shouldn't be long now. He would just stare into the fire and concentrate on that and then maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

"I couldn't control Jason," he found himself saying. "I'm sorry, Barnabas."

There was a pause, filled with the silence of the Old House, and broken only by the patter of sleet on the windows and the flicker and hiss of the fire in the grate.

"Why, Willie?"

He was surprised to hear that voice coming at him so calmly and it took him a moment to reply. "Why what?" he managed.

"Why didn't you tell me about Jason?"

The voice really wanted to know, and this infuriated Willie to the point where he let his tone become sharper than it ought to have been, given his present predicament. "Why? Because you told me that Jason was entirely my problem, don't you remember?" He knew his tone of voice was definitely not helping things any, but he couldn't stop. "You told me I was to keep him away, to stop his coming around here, and to fend off his questions, an' to make sure he never found out about anything." He hugged his knee tighter, hands locking in fists against his thigh. Maybe Barnabas didn't remember, but he did.

"Yes," replied Barnabas, almost softly, "and you obviously failed miserably."

Now it was coming, the death blow. He tucked his head down low between his shoulders and scrunched his eyes tight. He'd failed Barnabas in oh, so many little ways, and this was the biggest one of all, and because of his mistake, Barnabas had had to kill someone that he'd not planned to. Willie knew he was not the reason Barnabas' plans with Maggie had failed, but he knew he was closely enough associated with those lost dreams for the vampire to want to be rid of any reminders of that failure.

"But why," Barnabas' voice came again past his closed eyes, "why didn't you tell me about what he'd done to you?"

Willie's shoulders relaxed with his surprise. "I just told you, you said--"

"I'm not talking about that," Barnabas interrupted him, "I'm talking about--" Here Barnabas paused, as if considering his next words carefully, "I'm talking about the time that I'd asked you directly that one day what had happened to you. When Mr. McGuire's actions had gotten," he paused again, his voice sounding as if he were actually walking on eggshells, "out of hand."

_Out of hand._

Jason, his erstwhile best friend, had beaten him to a pulp, and Barnabas referred to the incident as Jason's getting out of hand. Willie dropped his knee and crossed his legs, and rested his elbows against his thighs. He buried his head in his hands, fingers weaving through his hair. The fire was making him feel hot all over. He wished Barnabas would just kill him and get it over with. But no, the vampire wanted to discuss it, wanted to poke at the writhing, snakelike mass of Willie's memories for his own pleasure.

"Willie," said Barnabas, commanding, "I want an answer."

Willie looked up then. Barnabas was staring at the portrait of himself, those hooded eyes dark in the firelight. He had one hand curled around his waist, the other tucked beneath his chin, the black ring glinting on his forefinger. And against his chest he cradled his silver-headed cane. As if he were about to use it at any minute. And Willie, suddenly, did not care.

"Alright, I'll tell you," he said, growling, looking straight into Barnabas' eyes. "I didn't tell you because I knew you would kill me. Because I knew you would be mad that I couldn't control Jason like you told me to, and because I knew that you wouldn't be able to tolerate having a man," his voice broke on the word and he swallowed, "having a man around who had let _that_ happen to him." He took a deep breath, and buried his head in his hands again, his voice dropping. "And because you told me that it wasn't a sure thing that you would protect me if I got into trouble."

"No," agreed Barnabas, "it wasn't a sure thing. It wasn't then, and it isn't now."

Willie felt the tears building in the back of his eyes. He clamped the heels of his palms over them, and tried to breathe slowly.

"I cannot abide weakness in a man," the vampire said.

Willie nodded into his hands. Now it was coming.

"But I simply cannot tolerate those who would abuse that weakness."

He found that a little hard to believe, remembering the times that Barnabas had taken advantage of every little weakness of Willie's that he could discover: his inability to handle pain, his fear of being hurt, his affection for Maggie, and even his loyalty to Barnabas himself. If that was Barnabas' idea of an explanation, it was completely inadequate. The small sound of surprise and anger escaped his throat.

"You think this hypocrisy, Willie?"

Of course it was, but he wasn't about to say it out loud. But then he felt the tap of Barnabas' cane against his hip. He half leaped up to land on his knees, trying to get away, holding on to the edge of the fireplace. His fingers got hot instantly and he had to let go. He had to open his eyes to crawl backwards, away from the hearth and the reach of Barnabas' cane.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Willie."

Whereas before he'd been hot, now he was cold, the air of the Old House saturated with a draft from the freezing rain. And he remembered his vision of the two hells, one very hot, the other very cold. He was in Barnabas' hell now, every inch of him drowning in ice. He stood up, knees shaking, holding on to one of the wing backed chairs for support. When he was upright, he looked at Barnabas, looked into those dark eyes and tried not to see the cane swinging from one hand. The air around Barnabas' face seemed to shimmer in the firelight. He took a deep breath. Death was coming now, oh, so very soon, and he felt as if he ought to make it worth at least someone's while.

"You're a hypocritical, self-serving bastard," he said levelly, watching Barnabas' eyebrows rise. "And I'm probably the only one who thinks so, because if you asked anyone else, they'd tell you that you hang the moon. But I'm the only one who knows you, Barnabas, I'm the only one who knows the truth of you. And I'm telling you the truth is that you have to control everyone and everything around you. You wanted to kill Maggie Evans not because she was going out of her mind, but because you couldn't control her, couldn't make her into what _you_ wanted her to be. You're worse than Jason ever was, because he only wanted to control his little part of things, and make his little pile of money. He never killed anyone, and yet you, who seem to feel so self-righteous all the time, have left a trail of bodies a mile wide behind you."

Barnabas was closing in on him, walking away from the firelight and into the shadows of the room, whose only other light was the two candles on the mantle.

"So you can kill me now, you can go ahead and kill me and I'll probably never be missed. But you know what?" he asked, stopping where he was and letting Barnabas get closer to him, "You'll always wonder if I was right and that you killed me because you were afraid."

"Afraid?" asked Barnabas, only inches from him now.

"Afraid of me," he said into Barnabas' eyes, "because I know exactly who and what you are."

"And I know who and what _you_ are," replied Barnabas.

"Fine," Willie said, crossing his arms over his chest. "So now we're even." He was frozen through and through, and his chest was shaking with the effort to keep warm. And hoped that the fires of hell would be easier to bear than this.

A dark pause filled the sitting room. His breath was starting to thicken his throat raggedly, and he swallowed as quietly as he could, still keeping his eyes on Barnabas. His swallow, of course, was quite audible in the silence.

The vampire's hands moved up and grabbed his shirt, pulling the cloth together until it tightened around his throat. They tilted his head back. Lifted him up until he was barely supporting his own weight on the balls of his feet. His hands dropped, useless, at his sides. Barnabas brought Willie's face close to his, so close that Willie could see the cold, dark fire in Barnabas' eyes, and see the glint of sharp teeth as he parted his lips.

Hell would be warmer than this, he just knew it would, and he kept his eyes on Barnabas'. Shaking, he was shaking so hard, his knees knocking together until they hurt, and he found himself blinking furiously to keep his tears at bay. One escaped anyway, rippling like a streak of hot mercury from the corner of his eye, down his face, and into the curve of his neck.

He watched as Barnabas' eyes followed it.

There was a long pause as he swallowed, feeling the dampness against the hollow of his throat and the pressure of Barnabas' grip on his shirt collar. The house was so quiet that the sleet on the window and the snap of the fire seemed only a dim echo in the great silence that hung in the air. Even his panting breaths, as he struggled to remain where he was, to not struggle and flee, seemed soundless.

And then the vampire almost seemed to smile, with a humor that was dark and ugly. "Well," he said, "better the devil you know than the one you don't, I suppose."

Willie had no idea exactly what that meant as Barnabas said it, nor what he should do as Barnabas slowly released his hold and Willie found the heels of his shoes touching the floorboards once more. Mouth still open, eyes wide and damp, he watched as Barnabas dropped his hands and turned to sit in one of the wing backed chairs. Serenely, as if nothing were amiss at all, as if he'd not, just a moment before, bared his fangs to firmly and forever dismiss his most faithful of servants. He pulled a book from the small side table and opened it up. And then looked up at Willie standing there with his mouth open, tears still drying on his face.

"Don't you have someplace else to be?" Barnabas asked, the firelight reflecting off his eyes. "I want to read now."

Willie turned to go, numb all over, reeling, knowing he was stumbling as he left the room, but unable to make his legs work in tandem with each other.

"Oh, and Willie."

Pausing on the threshold of the sitting room, the fear built anew, the back of his throat dry and hot.

"Uh?" he asked, turning his head over his shoulder to look back.

Barnabas was entirely focused on his book, one hand reaching up to turn a page over and smoothing the words there with his fingers.

"We're almost out of those beeswax candles I prefer. See that you pick some more up on your next visit into town."

His legs were shaking. And he felt a little lightheaded, if the truth were to be told. It would never be, of course, but Barnabas probably knew anyway. Somehow Willie had escaped death. For now.

Nodding, he left the vampire sitting in the firelight, reading. Climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door behind him. Not knowing if he were cold or hot, he built a fire anyway, kneeling and breathing in the smoke as it found its way up the chimney. Then he went to his bed and pulled the scrap of lilac silk from beneath his pillow. It caught on the roughness of his fingers and his palm as he held it carefully and crossed to the window. The cold air from outside had frosted the edges of the panes. He wiped away at this with the heel of his hand, leaving smears that warped his view of the trees and the lawn. 

Bringing the silk to his face, he breathed in the faded scent of jasmine and the even fainter trace of Maggie. He rubbed it, back and forth, with his thumb against his cheek, sending hard little shivers through his skull, and watched through the window as the sleet turned to snow.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a dark story, but I had such fun writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> I had been watching Dark Shadows all of my life, since I was seven, I think. Most of the time it was so scary, that I would have to turn it off; I couldn't stand to be in the same room if Dark Shadows was on TV. But it had such a cool premise, that I kept coming back to it, time after time. Then, long about 1999, I'd broken up with a boyfriend, and determined that now was the time that I should write that story I'd been thinking about. I started watching the show from the time that Barn appeared, and developed my outline and wrote as fast as I could, because I was SURE that someone else had the same great idea! Needless to say, no one did, at least not at the time, because most fans are more interested in Barn and from which neck he'll be sucking blood. Nothing could be more boring to me, but Willie was fascinating. Hence my need to torture him as much as I possibly could. But I'm not sure anyone could blame me, he's so adorable when he's miserable. 
> 
> You can also purchase a brilliantly done up zine for My Boy Willie, published by Kathy Resch, at
> 
> http://www.morgandawn.com/kathy_resch_darkshadows.htm


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